115 Out of the Frying Pan
by The Barracuda
Summary: FBI agent Abel Sykes does his best to protect the clan against one of their worst enemies yet, the American legal system. Reporters are massing, lawyers are scheming, but the gargoyles still have allies in the strangest places.


"**115 - Out Of The Frying Pan..."**

"_Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing."_

_ - Helen Keller_

Morning in New York. The sun, the racket, the exhaust, the American soul; sidewalk cafés arranged their tables and chairs under thick-striped awnings, Yellow cabs squealed in and out of traffic for their morning fare, and National Guard transport trucks filled with soldiers rumbled down the boulevards. Eight hundred now since the mayor sent word to Washington.

Times Square was still closed, forcing streams of unending, short-tempered morning commuters around the totaled intersection, still taped off as a crime scene, still piled with broken cars, still without the spark and spirit, grimly, deathly still.

The news was Gargoyles and nothing else. Everything was either pre-empted or taken off the air completely by the Emergency Broadcast System ; instead of the usual inane observations about the weather and celebrity fashions, morning talk show hosts suddenly fancied themselves as experts on gargoyles, casually discussing urban legends over a steaming _I Heart NY_ mug. Even those who'd denied their existence after years of sightings and blurred footage were now hopping on the bandwagon and insisting they'd always been here. Snippets of the mayor's recently-concluded press conference riddled the channels so much that, if turning fast enough, the entire speech could be threaded together in its entirety.

The last time the air was this thick with tension, fear and simmering anger, massive _things_ tore entire neighborhoods apart, resulting in what the mayor recently hailed as an incredibly successful urban reclamation project. The Hole, as New Yorkers called it, was created only three and a half months ago and even though reconstruction continued at a frenzied pace (completion was scheduled for only next year), the latest attack in the middle of their city had the population spooked, paranoid and, at last, left with a very visible scapegoat.

The gargoyles. In custody at police headquarters, surrounded by a sea of reporters and not quite ready to be labeled as the bad guys. Footage of the Guild was damning evidence of their innocence, but the Guild got away, the clan didn't.

City Hall was sure this had attracted all kinds of attention from the government, especially when word spread of real, live gargoyles in NYPD custody. The FBI was entrenched deep in their metaphorical guts with no intention of leaving. Lines of jurisdiction were becoming blurred and Mayor Frost was doing everything he could to keep everyone on the city payroll calm and collected. "We're stuck in neutral," he'd told them, "until the federal prosecutor gets here. I know, it's the Hole all over again. An attack without reason and without purpose, and if these gargoyles are to blame, I assure you, they will be punished under the full extent of the law."

But someone had spoken up, someone at the far end of table, voicing what a lot of people gathered in that room had felt but didn't have the guts to say aloud. "Human law. Those things aren't human and frankly, shouldn't be treated as such."

* * *

"Bloody 'ell." Leo stroked his mane, combing his talons through the course, tawny hair. "It's all gone to cock now."

But Una kept her gaze on the television, stern and still. She was particularly interested in the footage, of the Guild, the clan and their escape. Her mate's insistence on buying this new, mammoth flat-screen and subscribing to what he called digital cable brought every image into terrifying clarity.

"When we heard Goliath had up an' disappeared, I figured somethin' like this might happen."

"This has nothing to do with leadership." she said at length. "It was...inevitable, I suppose. After everything they, and we, have been through. It was never a question of if, my dear Leo, _but when_."

"Yeah. And this is it, inn'it?" His arm slid around her slender shoulders, fingers caressing the wing-feathers. "There's no running from this one. No more hiding, no more blaming th' shadows."

Her own hand found Leo's paw. "We've been accepted by small pockets of humans in Britain, but the entire world is a different story."

* * *

Dusk at Ishimura, what sounded like rain on the temple were shards of stone rolling down the hipped-gabled rooftop of ceramic tiles. The Ishimuran clan had woken to their human allies beckoning them to quickly enter the temple without an explanation why. Only Hiroshi, the local constable, would solemnly tell them, "There has been an incident in New York". Kai led the charge, knowing the turmoil the Manhattan clan had been through the last few months, what with Goliath's disappearance. The only television was tuned to a popular news channel, glutted with reports. New York was a warzone, again. The younger generations knew all about Times Square and its prominence in the city. Now like a wound, the city just had its heart ripped out.

Sora silently wrapped herself around Kai's left arm, cheek to bicep, footage flooding her glossy eyes.

A few of the elders spoke in hushed whispers to one another, including one who didn't quite conceal his voice well enough. "Fools. They've exposed us all."

Kai, nearly a foot taller than most of the gargoyles in the clan, turned his head on the hunchbacked, wrinkled male. Anyone else would've balked, shrunk or wet themselves under the heavy glare, but the old gargoyle simply stiffened, holding his opinion. Bushido commanded he not grab a respected elder by his long braided beard, but it couldn't extinguish the thought. "It was inevitable." his voice filled the small room. "The Manhattan clan did not ask to be hunted and attacked."

"And now they're exposed." the elder tersely responded. "How long before the rest of us are under the scrutiny of mankind?"

Kai would've answered if the same exact question wasn't foremost on his mind.

* * *

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Kid, you're going to give yourself brain damage."

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

FBI agent Dominic Ford's teeth made sparks as the upper row ground against the bottom like tectonic plates. Stuck in the room on guard duty, he'd been forced to listen to that damned kid's head bump against the wall for a good twenty minutes now. He figured he might've lost interest after the first hundred times, but the kid was obstinate and, apparently, thick-skulled. "Seriously..."

Todd let his head fall back square with his shoulders and glared at his counterpart across the room. "Fine."

"Thank you."

The room fell maddeningly quiet in the absence of his anxious twitch, save for the air rushing through flared nostrils. That empty, hollow silence was the reason he was distractedly banging his head. He was pining for something, _anything_, to break the monotony, like rearing up and actually putting his head through the drywall. With the clan having taken up half the room, arranged in a circle dead center, it was hard to pace around what was left without risking his shins. But all that nervous energy had to be channeled somehow and Todd suddenly leapt from the chair and started round the room, taking his frustration out on any furniture that happened to be in the way, stepping on the end table, the couch, chairs and leap-frogging the potted fichus.

His irritation was palpable, but ultimately harmless if not incredibly annoying for someone trying to catch up on some much needed sleep. Every few minutes or so Abel would feel his makeshift bed jerk and flex as the human trekked across the couch's back end. "...urgh..." he mumbled incoherently. His eyes fluttered, and the lines three deep underneath were testaments to his exhaustion. He watched as Todd completed another circuit. "Todd...for the love of all that's holy..."

"Don't like it?" Todd replied. "Then let's do something than just sitting on our asses!"

Abel re-settled into the cushions. "There's absolutely nothing we can do now until the federal prosecutor arrives."

"You know, I'm getting sick of hearing that!"

"Then stop asking." he said. "As frustrating as it is, we have no choice now but to wait."

"For the clan to be persecuted by someone a little higher up the rung of authority."

"I told you, the rest of the clan is safe."

A pair of shoes landed on solid ground with an authoritative thud and Todd sicced an angry pair of eyes on the agent. "Yeah, I've seen your definition of safe. If they're not trapped inside a police station, they're in chains and shackles facing bogus charges."

"Well, they could still be out there, on the run from the law, being hunted by what's left of the Guild."

"They would be free. If you really wanted to help, you would've let them go last night."

Abel suddenly jerked his head from the armrest, muttered something lost to his own labored exhale, and got to his feet. A string of muffled cricks and cracks ran the length of his body as he stretched out. "I also could've left them there in the middle of that firefight! Now I haven't been up for a day and a half for my own goddamned health. Nor have I been risking my reputation, my sanity and what's left of my career to help these glorified lawn ornaments! When I said they were safe, I meant it."

"They'd be safer out of this room. I'm a little rusty on the laws on holding suspects, but if they're not actually suspects..."

"I'm legally allowed to hold them for twenty-four hours." Abel countered. "Of course, they are a little inanimate at the moment. Do you think that counts towards the total?"

Todd's frown deepened to the jawbone.

Seeing that expression, it was almost worth not being able to sleep. "You really think they're safer out there?"

"Much."

"I disagree. In fact, I think they can do a lot for themselves if they stay. But I'll tell you what, when they wake up, we'll ask them." He pulled his sleeve back to check his watch. "In about six hours. Now, be a good boy, and sit down, or I'll remove you."

He didn't sit down. Frustration vented as a listless twitch running from head to toe, and Todd started swinging his head around presumably looking for something to either destroy or hurl across the room.

"Careful, son," Abel warned him, "you're liable to break off a wing if you're going to do what I think you want to do."

"Bite me."

"Right." Abel scratched his scruff-pricked jaw, and smoothed down his hair. He'd hoped for an hour of sleep at the most, but, as long as he was up... "Todd–"

"_What?_" he barked.

"I want to talk to Rose."

Then, softer, and genuinely surprised, "What?"

"Rose." he repeated. "I want to talk to her."

"No, no way." He pointed a finger at the agent like the tip might explode with a bullet. "You stay the hell away from her."

Staring down the barrel of a loaded index finger, Abel continued unfazed, "I think with everything that's come to light, your mother and I need to have a little talk. Happen to have her phone number?"

Todd put on the airs of someone about to knock a rival chess piece off the board. The half-smile he formed was as sharp as a Ginsu knife. "What do you think?"

Abel took the hint. "Right. Your mother and I need to clear the air. It's gotten a little stuffy after twenty years. And then of course, there's your sister."

"They have nothing to do with this, or _you_."

"You do know I was the one responsible for getting your mother out of the country, right? I risked my career and my life to help her–" He was aware of the coincidence as soon as it loosed from his mouth, having said the exact same thing earlier, "–when no one else would, or could."

"Yeah, I know." Todd said. "But of course, since she was marked for death along with my father, maybe she's safer without any contact from you."

Abel held down the urge to smile; this kid was a natural at turning his own words around at him. Probably the kind of kid who picked locks not to steal anything, but just to prove he could actually do it, then cajole the owner to hand over a few bucks in order to hear how to better protect their property. "I need to speak with her."

"Maybe in six hours."

"Touché." Abel ceded. He was too exhausted to continue a pointless, cyclical argument. "But, now that we're at an impasse, I find myself wondering why I should let you stay here. You're becoming increasingly useless and frankly, you're now in the way."

Eyes the color of a churning thunderstorm narrowed to slits.

"And if you're not going to offer me anything I can use to help people you claim to care about, then I might as well have Dominic grab you by your Underoos and throw your ass out on the street, if only to try and get some sle–"

He wasn't even halfway through that thought when the door burst open. An officer came running through and, whatever he wanted, it was momentarily forgotten when he caught sight of the gargoyles. It put lead in his shoes and he skidded on his heels, bewildered stare hung on Bronx's full, gaping jaw and all the massive bear-sized teeth inside.

Looking forlornly at that couch, its lumpy cushions so close to putting a permanent bend in his spine, Abel figured sleep had eluded him again. "Officer?"

He had to shake himself loose from the spectacle and concentrated on Abel. "Agent Sykes..."

"Yes?"

The officer wandered closer in a distinct curve around the clan, speaking in a hushed tone. "I just got a call from Bellevue..."

All thoughts of a quick nap were swiftly obliterated. "Isn't that where the other gargoyle was taken?"

"Yeah, but someone else was admitted last night as well. Does the name Joseph Hawkins mean anything to you?"

"_What?_" Abel's tired eyes opened like dinner plates. "Jesus..."

"Apparently he was a victim of the pile-up in Times Square." the officer continued. "He was brought in with his wife."

"_Wife?_" he echoed quickly. It couldn't have been Rose...

"But apparently, there's some question to the validity of that claim."

"Well," he breathed, "the day's just full of coincidences." Abel knew the jade-skinned female had been taken to Bellevue, but figured it was useless to question what was, at the moment, as lifelike and talkative as sculpted rock; right now doctor Crispin was acting as his eyes and ears, watching over the gargoyle until she woke up. He was hoping to go after dusk, after the clan here woke up, but now there was added incentive.

From where he was seated, Dominic could see the lines of thought crossing Abel's forehead. "Abel? You're furrowing."

His focus wasn't on his partner; by the direction of his absent gaze, it was somewhere on the carpeting. "Dom, I have to go." he announced suddenly.

"Where?"

"Bellevue."

"What's at Bellevue?" Todd asked, having missed most of the conversation. He wasn't good at reading lips, but he was a master at body language.

The question though, was met with a purposeful silence. Abel threw a hand towards his young partner. "Keep an eye on everything here. I'll try to be back just after sundown."

"No problem." Dominic nodded, though he was a little worried to be left watching the shop all by his self. "But what about the kid?"

Just before vanishing through the doorway, Abel stopped, turned and regarded the young man. Todd was staring a hole through his chest. "Yeah, what about him." he whispered rhetorically. He'd risked a lot for this dumb yet laudable kid, but he'd refused to offer him anything in return. Plus, with the revelation of a certain patient at Bellevue, he'd suddenly graduated from annoyance to liability. "Well, he's been officially cleared of the charges, and frankly he's of no further use to us and this investigation. Get him out of here."

Todd's surprise was palpable. "Whoa, what? Abel..."

"And don't let him back in the building."

"_Hey...!_" Todd tried to protest, but the foil for his anger vanished through the door before he could let the expletives fly and was replaced by a couple of burly cops, one for each arm.

The fatter one hooked his thumbs in his belt and twitched his heavy moustache as he managed to string a sentence together. "All right, son, agent Sykes says you're not welcome here anymore."

The responding gesture would have been blurred out if it appeared on television. Todd immediately tried to make a break for it, but the cops were on him quickly; half the room was full of breakable gargoyle statues and didn't leave much room for maneuvering. He jumped the couch, narrowly missing a hairy hand from wrapping around his ankle, only to see cop number two in front of him. He was tackled; the world turned on its side and Todd kissed the carpet as his arms were folded behind him, not so much in the proper direction.

"I wouldn't do that, kid," Dominic warned him, seeing the intent glistening across wild eyes, "you'll lose an arm that way."

"Let go of me, asshole!" Todd snarled into the floor, a string of spittle javelining from lip to rug.

"C'mon, up."

He was hauled to his feet and carried from the room, legs flailing the entire way, hoping to land a kick on one of their uniformed brethren. "Abel? _Abel! Sykes!_" As Todd was carried through the corridor and into the main foyer of police headquarters, he caught the tail-end of Abel as he walked away. "Sykes, you bastard! You goddamned liar!"

Sykes stopped, whirled on his heel and met his contrastingly icy gaze against the young man's irate glare. "I did a lot for you, son, now I'm through helping if you're not willing to help me. Go home. Go back to your wife."

* * *

It was either a coincidence that two people were thinking about the same presumably dead man at the same time, or simply bad timing.

Ever since being told Joseph survived the bombing and was lying comatose in a nearby hospital bed, Rose found her thoughts centered on her estranged husband, especially their last encounter. It hadn't gone so well. She especially wondered if he had a scar where she speared his hand with a scalpel.

Her son had found his way into her brooding as well, and like her daughter-in-law (she was _still_ getting used to having a gargoyle as an in-law) had unsuccessfully tried to get in touch with him. She either received a busy signal or voice messaging in response. She already knew he was safe and she figured he wasn't answering in some stubborn sense of overprotection. Rose figured her absence in his life owed to his independence.

With all the sirens wafting up from the chaos below, a muted groan would definitely go unnoticed. A little hand pushed one of the massive library doors open and pierced the muted room with a shaft of light from outside, Sarah craning her neck to see inside. She found her mother (or at the very least, a familiar silhouette) in the slatted, tangerine glow of the library window, staring into the city. She hadn't eaten since the sun came up, and was more distant than usual. "Mom?"

Rose was startled enough to jump at the intruding voice. She whirled around to see her daughter rolling into the room in a motorized wheelchair. "You shouldn't be out of bed." was all she could think of to say.

Sarah whirred forward, maneuvering around the furniture. "I'm not an invalid. As long as I have my medicine and my oxygen. I don't really need this chair, but I get tired sometimes..."

"Which is exactly the reason you–"

"Shouldn't be out of bed. Yes, I've heard it before."

Rose thinned her eyes at her daughter, but ceded the point. If only this frail little thing could understand what it was like having her second-born child suddenly resurrected after a couple of decades. She drifted towards her daughter and cupped her hand. "I'm sorry, but I can't help it. Remember, the last time I saw you, you were a helpless, crying poop machine."

"Thanks. That's good for the ego."

"You're not old enough to have an ego, Sarah." she admonished; the tone was playful but rippled with an underlying sternness.

Sarah crossed her arms. "So my brother gets to run ramrod around the city stealing ambulances, and I can't even have an ego?"

"Please don't turn this into a case of sibling rivalry." A sharp pain erupted just behind her eyes and Rose started shaking her head. "And besides, your brother was arrested and could have ended up in prison if it weren't for a family friend pulling his butt out of the fire."

"Got a hold of him yet?"

"No. I think he's turned his cell-phone off as a precaution."

She turned down her eyes, they flicked back and forth. "Maybe you should try again."

"I've tried dozens of times, but he's not answering." she said. "I know you're worried about him..."

"Well, not to come off as rude or uncaring, but no, I'm not." And before Rose could erupt into that stereotypically injured-Mother mode, expressing shock at how callous her baby girl could be towards her only brother, Sarah quickly explained, "I've never doubted his ability to take care of himself. From what I've heard and seen, he's a one-person wrecking machine. It's the man lying in a hospital bed that I'm worried about. You know, the one with the bullet hole in his chest?"

Rose sighed, pressing delicately thin fingers to her forehead. "He's lying there for a reason."

"I want to see him."

"Sarah..." she tried weakly.

"I _need_ to see him, and so do you. I figure there's a few things left unresolved."

"Only half of my life..." she muttered quietly, uncharacteristically, and whether it was supposed to be quiet enough never to reach her daughter, Rose swept the thought away before Sarah had the chance to react. "Unresolved feelings are hardly what are keeping me from going. You have no idea what I've been through, and I don't think you're capable of understanding just what your father has become."

"I _know_ what he is." Sarah countered, with as much intensity as she could manage from her tiny form.

But Rose took special care to enunciate every word of her response. "No, dear, _you do not_." she said matter-of-factly, gaze aflame. In the short time she'd known her, Sarah had never heard her mother's voice alter beyond the matronly, lilting Mary Poppins tone or saw her eyes reflect nothing but the color of warm forest pine. "I know he's your father, Sarah, and he used to be my husband, but you were raised in a tiny, protected bubble while the real world was chewing the rest of us up and spitting us out. I looked him in the eyes as he calmly informed me just how and when he was going to kill me, your brother and every single gargoyle in this building."

Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"He's lived too long in the blanket of his rage and xenophobia. What's left in his place is a murderer."

She vehemently shook her head. "I don't believe that, and I know you don't believe that either."

"The last thing I did to your father was to jab a scalpel into his hand and throw a rather heavy piece of medical equipment at his back."

"Doesn't matter." she insisted nonchalantly. "He could be dying..."

As much as she would've willed any physical reaction away, it came too fierce and too quick. Rose shuddered. "I know."

With her mother reeling, Sarah continued, "And do you even care?"

Her eyes flashed, though it could have been a reflection off the window. "Of course I do."

"Then do you really want your last encounter to be your last memory of him? If he dies, if we leave it like this, we will regret it for the rest of our lives."

Rose drew in a long breath through her nose. "Sarah..."

"I _need_ to see my father." She was reduced to begging, despite her stubborn pride. "Please."

"I...don't have any transportation."

A poor excuse, which Sarah quickly trumped. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a set of keys, complete with a keychain in the shape of what looked like a tiny pair of orange shorts, with the Hooters logo branded across rounded cheeks. The owner was suddenly obvious. "We can take Todd's Jeep."

"Where did you get those?"

"His room." she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to rummage through her brother's private things. "At least his..._wife_," the word rolled out on a less than complimentary tone, "is actually somewhat organized."

Rose ignored her daughter's slight and instead focused on the keys. Thoughts swirled through her mind; twenty years of pain, regrets and memories that brought a cold chill to her lungs. Her next breath was hard to come by. "I don't think I can."

"Yes, you can. That's your husband out there."

"My husband died a long time ago." she said matter-of-factly. Any doubts were swiftly obliterated in their encounter only weeks ago, but as her daughter scrunched her thin little face and tightened those tiny little fists, she figured Sarah didn't share her viewpoint.

"I can go by myself if you're unwilling. And, of course, struggle with my portable oxygen tank and this stupid chair, try to navigate rush-hour traffic without an actual driver's license and talk to him myself, or..." she jingled the keys for added flourish, "you can come with me."

* * *

A few floors below the castle's library, a different kind of conversation was taking place between employer and employee.

Jason Canmore really needed to stop expressing surprise every time he was informed of yet another paid informant in either one of Manhattan's largest corporations, or one of the city's agencies, and he had to admit, despite the ethics of keeping moles in key positions throughout the island, it was paying off in spades. It was like having a pair of eyes in every building. From the informants' hourly reports, he was able to keep tabs on the clan and their allies split between police headquarters and Bellevue hospital. But that constant flow of information came at a price; he was unable to do anything but watch the events unfold, chewing on his frustration.

Xanatos sat behind his desk like a king at his throne, absorbed into the leather enormity of his chair, fingers splayed, tip to tip, against the dark russet bristle of his beard. His unblinking gaze was intent on the television screen embedded into the wall, separated into four perfect squares and each with a different news channel.

But considering he'd done nothing but comb every channel for anything on the clan for the last twenty-four hours, Jason had to look away and rub the sting from his eyes. It was a gesture that didn't go unnoticed.

"You've barely slept, Jason."

Sympathy from the ice man, he thought suddenly. "I'm okay. I suppose my mother was right, watching too much television can make ye blind."

"And have you gleaned anything from all those hours of mindless, babbling, politically-slanted news reports?" he asked.

"That twenty-four hour news channels breed stupidity and th' decline of journalistic integrity." He blinked his eyes a few dozen times and settled back on the television screen, but found that same painful swirl of images assaulting the senses. "But if yuir speaking about anything related t' th' gargoyles, then nothing substantial. We already know Brooklyn's most likely heading t' trial and th' rest of the clan is being held at police headquarters. That particular fact has been repeated ad nauseam."

"And how does all of this pertain to us?"

"Surprisingly little. We're playing damage control with th' press team on full alert, but all th' attention is on th' gargoyles right now."

There was a moment of deliberation before he responded. "Unless we do something to attract that attention."

Jason tipped his head into a nod, and slowly lifted it back into place. "I don't think there's any way we can provide legal assistance without it being traced t' us." he explained. "Lawyers just don't appear without a paper trail leading back t' whoever's footing th' bill. Even a shell company wouldn't survive th' scrutiny of a government investigation, especially one that tries t' help a gargoyle."

From where he was sitting behind the desk, his features shaded and almost completely obscured, it was hard to discern even the slightest emotional content, let alone a slight, ephemeral twitch to prove he was still alive. Xanatos' face creased only faintly, before returning to stoic normalcy. "I know you haven't been in this position for very long, Mr. Canmore," he said pointedly, "but my former majordomo had the ability to make anything disappear, including paper trails."

"Are ye saying my skills aren't up t' th' task?"

"Heavens no, you've acquitted yourself quite admirably in Owen's place, but it just seems you're missing that certain quality."

"Humanity?" Jason proffered.

Without even allowing a hint of whether or not Jason was actually right, he simply decided to ignore that. "If you're sure we can't help him, I'll trust your judgment."

"I didn't say I was sure–"

"The last thing I want is the clan being tied to me or this company in any possible way."

"Even if Brooklyn's tried and found guilty?" Jason said, and cast the room into silence.

There was what sounded like a breath, drawn out. Guilt maybe, for what would come next. "Brooklyn and the clan made their choice. I can't always risk my livelihood and that of more than a million employees nationwide because they chose a particular course of action."

"Yuir right. But sometimes we're forced into that particular course of action through no fault of our own."

His gaze burned through the gloom like a laser beam. Xanatos looked at him silently; he figured Jason was trying to make a subtle point. "Regardless," he changed the subject, "what do you think will happen now?"

"They'll assign him a public defender."

"_If_ they're following proper procedure." someone said. "He is a gargoyle after all." From the dim corner of the room, just beyond the periphery of the ceiling spotlights, Macbeth made his presence known. He'd polished off a couple of steaks, half a bottle of scotch and chased it with a few extra strength painkillers to squelch the headache caused the Epsilon armor's neural patch; his fingertips were still a little numb from the prolonged exposure. And now, as if the dull ache at the front of his brain wasn't enough, he was forced to listen to the circular banter between Canmore and Xanatos.

Jason almost forgot he was there. The man had blended in with all of the displayed antiquities like some sterling-haired statue. "That's a good point." he answered the ghost. "But I'd like t' believe our government would allow him a fair trial, if only for th' fact th' entire thing is far too public now for Brooklyn t' just disappear without a trace."

"I've seen government in action for a thousand years, son, and humans are capable of terrifying things. Are ye going to leave him to th' mercy of th' public justice system?"

"Give me another option." Jason dared him. "Perhaps this is th' best thing. Perhaps it's finally time t' fully reveal themselves."

"Remember the last time we were this close to their revelation?"

"Yes, especially when ye once argued on national television for th' gargoyles favor. I caught yuir interview when I was convalescing in th' hospital after being shot in th' spine."

Macbeth got up, cricked his neck and walked in between the crown-lighted pillars. He looked a little haggard, though it could've been the shadows highlighting every line in his face and lifting them with perfect clarity. "And look where it got us. Six years later and we're all in the same position."

"Exactly. The gargoyles continued t' hide from public view. They let rumor and hearsay run wild. They let exterior forces decide who and what they are."

"There were reasons for that, Canmore." Macbeth was standing only a few feet away, and even Jason had to admit how the man so impressively carried himself; six and a half feet might as well have been twenty from his unique position. "_You_ of all people should know that."

He nodded; his culpability formed a knot in his throat. "Right. Fear, falsehoods and mob mentality were very effective weapons for th' hunters. Now they have the chance t' show th' world th' truth. Perhaps th' best thing we can do is nothing."

There was a moment of silent deliberation before Macbeth spoke again. "And despite th' risk of condemning them to some government facility somewhere that doesn't exist, you want to just sit back and hope this already flawed justice system sorts itself out before Brooklyn is crucified in court."

Jason opened his arms and shrugged. "Think about it, Macbeth, could any kind of intervention only hurt his chances?"

"Or this company?" Xanatos added. "I have been brought to the brink far too many times, and right now, _especially_ right now, I cannot afford the truth from getting out. If there's going to be any chance of a leak, then perhaps you should try to find the hole."

Jason spun around by turning a single wheel. As much as David Xanatos could question his suitability to this particular job, he hoped his employer was picking up on the fact they were literally thinking the same thing, even when it went unsaid. "Ye mean Savannah." he guessed, and guessed correctly.

"She's in that hospital lying next to the leader of the Guild. And one word from her could do more damage than I could imagine."

Again, Xanatos didn't need to express what he expected of him; Jason quickly understood. "Bellevue's locked down with police, FBI and a regiment of National Guard soldiers."

"Details." he waved him off.

"Removing her could prove...problematic."

"Use your imagination, Mr. Canmore. You'd be surprised at what you can achieve when it's your own ass on the line." And before anyone else could offer a rebuttal, something small and unobtrusive chirped on his desk and he turned his attention to what looked like a cell-phone in his hand. His expression wavered, only slightly, and only for a split-second, before returning to stoic normalcy. "Well," Xanatos cleared his throat, "I'll leave the situation in your capable hands, Mr. Canmore, as I have more pressing matters."

"Well, I don't think–"

With the long stride of an Olympic speed-walker, Xanatos crossed the length of his office in record time and aimed for the doors leading into the hallway, leaving both Jason and Macbeth to wordlessly follow.

With his employer cutting the discourse short in his usual cryptic fashion and walking away faster than he could follow (he often wondered if Xanatos put a little spring in his step on purpose), Jason might've argued the point further if not for catching sight of his sister and her boyfriend emptying out from the foyer's elevator. Turning his head back to where Xanatos once was (and had now vanished from, probably into the adjacent elevator), he deliberated for a moment until ultimately steering towards Robyn. As he approached she raised her head to her brother; her eyes were haunted, worn and sparkless. It was the same skeletal expression she'd worn for years after their father was killed, just bereft of the accompanying rage. Jason wanted to say something comforting but couldn't find the words.

It was Robyn who'd speak first, uncharacteristically admitting to her older brother's accuracy. "Ye were right."

His vindication went uncelebrated. He could've said something to that effect but figured it was useless. "I'm sorry, Robyn...I really am."

"I'm not."

"Ye sure?"

"I'm glad I went, I'm glad I know. Jon closed th' door."

"Yes, he did." Jason agreed grimly. "But now I'm more afraid of th' damage he could do if he decides t' spill his guts."

"You figure he's going to sing?" Dingo asked.

"I think he's going t' do as much damage as he possibly can."

Having trailed the acting majordomo into the hall, Macbeth sidled up alongside him. "And how does yuir plan to do nothing look now?"

Jason brooded in his chair.

* * *

The ride over took an hour at best; traffic was still a little sluggish on some of the heavier arteries. Sykes figured he could've ridden on a wave of molasses faster than it was trying to weave a nondescript FBI cruiser with a faded beige paintjob through the crowded streets. Stuck behind a semi-truck half the way, he was tempted to throw the beacon on the roof and run a few red lights, but considering the emotional state of the island at the moment, he didn't want to add fuel to an already roaring fire with a speeding police car screaming wildly through Manhattan.

As Abel entered into the hospital's main lobby, he could see the remnants of a busy night. Bellevue was once one of the major hubs after the attack, fielding dozens of victims in a steady stream. It had quieted down in the last day and noting the distinct lack of reporters outside, he figured what little staff had seen the gargoyle being wheeled inside made sure to keep their mouths shut, if only for the health and safety other patients. He strolled inside, approached the main desk and gently rapped on the laminated surface with his knuckles; the duty nurse looked up and smiled at the sight in front of her.

A few miles on the odometer but she always loved a classic. "Can I help you?" she swooned.

Abel already had his wallet out, showing his FBI identification. "Agent Abel Sykes. I'm here to visit some patients that were admitted last night."

"Of course. Their names?"

"Well, one doesn't actually have a name, and the other is classified information."

She cocked her head before understanding. "Ah." she said simply, the smile plummeting. The FBI would only be interested in a patient especially if that patient weren't human. "You're here for the gargoyle."

"Yes, ma'am."

She flicked her pen up and slightly to the left, in the general direction of the main elevators. "Third floor. left corridor. Just look for the uniforms." Abel ducked his head in appreciation and started walking past the desk, when the nurse threw herself from the chair and asked, "Are you going to take that...that thing?"

He stopped and stared at her quizzically. "Maybe. And she's not a thing, she's a patient."

"Well, of course," she fumbled, "I didn't mean..."

Abel left her with her embarrassed stutter and headed towards the elevators. "Thanks again."

* * *

As soon as he walked off the elevator, Abel saw exactly what the nurse was talking about, coming across about a dozen officers standing guard over the entire third floor. That left corridor the nurse had directed him towards was a wall-to-wall sea of uniforms and, judging by the sheer amount, there was probably a gargoyle at the other end.

At least her room was well-guarded, as if whatever was inside that room would suddenly wake up, miraculously heal from her wounds and savagely attack them all. Figuring the gargoyle obviously wasn't going anywhere, he lingered for a moment before walking into the other room in the hall. Abel found a lone police officer standing watch with his arms crossed. "Officer?"

He turned and recognized the suit before any badge needed to be shown. "Agent Sykes?"

"Yeah." Abel nodded in lieu of a handshake. "I hear you have a person of interest."

"Two actually."

But Abel's gaze had already wandered to the corner of the room and the patient under the covers.

"They were both brought in last night, from Times Square."

He was at the Square, Abel mused. A hundred questions tried running through his mind all at the same time, but one in particular led the pack; he wondered why the Guild would've escaped without taking their precious leader with them. Abel started approaching the bed and as he neared he decelerated, like all of a sudden the floor turned to wet cement. The man lying there was Joseph all right. But like a limp marionette, he was nothing more than a collapsed heap of disconnected bones under the sheet, tubes like strings snaked and speared into almost every orifice; an accordion ventilator hose down his throat, oxygen tube taped to his nose, an IV in his arm, one good tug on all of them and he could probably make him dance. He was a far-cry from the man who'd nearly killed him a couple of months ago; this man was the reason he'd kicked Todd out of police headquarters, but now he realized Joseph couldn't do much damage with his brain stuck in neutral. "What's his condition?" Abel whispered.

"Stable." the nurse answered. "His chances for recovery are very good."

It took Abel a few minutes to finally tear his eyes away and towards the woman who'd, apparently, tried to smother a helpless invalid. Savannah was sitting on her own bed, legs dangling over the side, her left wrist attached by a pair of handcuffs to the bed's railing. Apparently, she'd been deemed a flight risk.

The officer had silently made his way to Abel's shoulder. "She hasn't said a thing since the nurse came in."

"But you're pretty sure she tried to kill him."

A casual roll of the brows meant the officer was relying more on a hunch than any actual evidence. "Well, suffocate the poor bastard at least. We think it might have been a case of domestic abuse, since she told the hospital staff that he was her husband when they were admitted."

"Husband?" Abel sputtered, and shook his head like it was on a swivel. "No, no...that's a cover story if I ever heard one."

"Then why...?"

He was already shaking his head. "I don't know yet. She went from protecting a glorified crash-test dummy to attempted murder in less than a day."

"Well, I'll let you have a go with her. I tried and got nothing." The officer poked a finger to his temple. "It's like a flip was switched off in her brain somewhere."

"Yeah, seen _that_ before." Abel wandered over towards the woman, golden gaze awash with those little details most people would tend to overlook. Her cheekbones were sunken; she was wiry thin and pasty, the same egg-shell cream as the walls in his apartment, similarly starved of sunlight. Her hair was full of split ends and her wrists and ankles were bandaged (_shackles?_). One footfall on the linoleum might as well have been a gun going off in the room the way she reacted; the woman seemed to fold in on herself like a house of cards as soon as he made a sound, but kept that haunted gaze on the floor. He suppressed the urge to snap his fingers somewhere in the line from eye to linoleum, lest she suffer a psychotic break; her mindset seemed a little delicate at the moment. "Miss St. Nicks?" he said.

"Yes."

An answer, robotic and monotone as an old computer, but at least she was speaking. "I'm special agent Abel Sykes. You've been missing for a long time now. And now you show up in the middle of Times Square, in the middle of a firefight between gargoyles and xenophobic terrorists."

"And?"

"Well...I have to assume it was either a coincidence or there's a connection."

"Coincidence, I guess."

"Right..."

"Did you try to kill him?" he came out with it.

Her shoulders rose and dipped almost inconspicuously. "I held a pillow over his head."

The tone was so neutral and frighteningly cold she might as well have been talking about what she had for breakfast this morning. But Abel figured part of her brain had shut down before it stroked out, to better help her deal with what was obviously a painful memory. "Okay, Miss St. Nicks, I think you should come with me now."

"Am I under arrest?"

"Yes." he replied. "Unless you can offer a reasonable explanation why you tried to kill a man..."

"He's not a man," she sneered, hands wringing an invisible neck, "he's the leader of the Guild and he had me kidnapped, strung up in his base and beaten on a daily basis."

"Ah," Abel breathed, "well...I'd say that might be probable cause. But why would he kidnap you?"

"Information."

"On...?"

Savannah slowly lifted her head and finally looked him in the eye.

What Abel found there was slightly unnerving. There was a hint of a bruise around her right eye-socket, and a crack in her bottom lip; either she'd recently walked into a door and needed some lip-balm or someone had tried to rearrange her face with their knuckles. They weren't fresh enough to be caused by the pile-up in Times Square. "Miss St. Nicks?" he tried again.

"What do _you_ think?"

Sarcasm aside, he mused on it. As far as he could tell, the Guild had a singular purpose. More than a year ago, most of the so-called Gargoyles Taskforce was killed in cold blood, a support rally in Central Park bombed, and an attack on the 23rd precinct left several dead officers in its wake. This reporter would've only been taken if she had information on the gargoyles. "You were reported missing months ago. Were you a captive of the Guild all that time?"

"Yes." she lied.

"And what kind of information did you have that they deemed valuable enough to kidnap you?"

Again, nothing.

He couldn't tell if she was just too traumatized to answer or if she was avoiding the question by keeping quiet. "Fine. Don't answer. If you don't want to cooperate, that's your choice. Attempted murder usually carries a minimum sentence of five to ten years in the state penitentiary."

The decision played out across her gaunt, darkened features. Apparently he only had to threaten her with a prison sentence to loosen her tongue. "I was with them...for a while..."

"The gargoyles."

"Yes."

"Where? _When?_"

"I can't tell you."

Again, he hit the wall. Everyone even remotely linked to the gargoyles seemed to catch a sudden case of lock-jaw in self-preservation. His fingertips dragged across the deep furrows in his forehead; he was close to rubbing a hole there. "Well there's only one other choice, prison."

"Then I want to deal. Information for immunity. _Total_ immunity."

"Depends..." Abel shrugged. "If what you have is worth it."

Savannah knew a player when she heard one; her career kept her wading knee-deep in bullshit all year round. He'd turned the tables on her pretty quick. But the sudden weight of a conscience she'd grown in the last few days was like a noose around her neck; it could either sink her or save her.

Seeing Savannah's deliberation, Abel played the good cop. "All I can tell you right now is that I'm trying to help them. If what you know can do that..."

"Maybe," she said, her voice trembling, "it could also hurt them more than you could ever imagine."

"We'll have to take that risk. Now, let's get you dressed. I'm going to take you to police headquarters." He gently tugged her by the forearm and guided her to her feet. The clank of metal on metal reminded him she was still attached to the bed-frame and he turned to the officer. "You got the key?"

He hesitated. "You sure, agent Sykes?"

"Very."

"Okay..." He reached to his belt for the keys and separated Savannah from her bed. "She's all yours."

"Actually, she's all yours." Abel countered. "Think you could escort this young woman to police headquarters?"

His first instinct was to decline, but figured it was better than standing around and guarding a couple of comatose patients. "Sure. Is she under arrest?"

"For now, let's just call her a person of interest. There's a much bigger tapestry being woven here. Get her some clothes and try not to draw any attention to yourselves. There's a media circus waiting for you."

"Got it." He grabbed Savannah's arm and she flinched at the contact, staring like an animal whose food was just taken away. With a directional nudge he escorted her towards the door and into the hallway. He didn't even notice another woman glide past him, holding a hand up to her face.

Rose quickly found refuge around a corner and pancaked against the wall until the cop and Savannah were far enough away that she could finally release the breath she'd been holding. Her daughter followed, protected by her own anonymity and the fact she blended in as a patient better than her mother. Ever since tricking her way past the front desk by wearing her robes, flashing her cross and telling the nurses she was here to give comfort to the sick and the lame (no one ever said no to a nun), Rose had been unable to disguise her that nascent sense of dread, with Sarah telling her to calm down and act natural several times before even reaching the third floor. And the woman nearly had a coronary when spotting the police.

"This was not a good idea." Rose muttered.

"Calm down, mom." Sarah said, leaning from her chair and standing on her tip-toes to get a better look. From their hiding spot, they could just see across the reception area and into the room where Savannah had exited from. In the far bed, Sarah caught a glimpse of a silvered mane underneath a tangle of tubes and wires. "Dad..."

Rose crept out a little further and followed Sarah's eager gaze. But where her daughter had spotted Joseph, Rose was forcefully re-introduced to an old friend, unwittingly wedging himself into view. A few more wrinkles, a little less hair, it was still undeniably, "_Abel_."

And as if he somehow heard her, Abel abruptly swiveled towards the door. Those gold eyes glinted in the light and that coronary Rose had feared damn-near threatened to choke her brain.

Suddenly yanked backwards, Sarah nearly rolled from her seat. Her mother had grabbed the wheelchair by the handles and pulled it behind a laundry cart a little further down the hallway. "Mom, _what...?_"

Rose's fingers dug into her daughter's shoulder. "He'll recognize me..."

"But he doesn't know _me_." Grabbing a pastel uniform top from the laundry cart, Sarah threw it over her shoulders and took off so quickly she almost left skid marks on the floor.

"_Sarah!_" Rose called after her, but her daughter had already screeched around the corner and, before anyone could react, into the room.

Abel turned at the sound and quickly backpedaled before getting his toes crushed under tiny rubber wheels. "Whoa, _hey!_"

"Sorry." Sarah called behind her, driving in an unbroken line towards the bed.

"Hey, excuse me!" Abel gave chase and intercepted the woman before she reached Joseph, nearly sacrificing his knees when the wheelchair stopped only just, letting loose a squeal. "Who the hell are you?"

"Oh, sorry, where are my manners? I'm a candy striper. I'm here to look after the patient. You know, fluff his pillows, give him a shave, check his bedpan, etcetera, etcetera."

Abel set his gaze over the slick-smiled girl; there was something so familiar in that grin. If his eyes didn't have a glaze over them to match his sleep-deprived brain, he might've recognized her. "Well, young lady, you get points for enthusiasm, but this particular patient is off-limits."

She seemed to take affront. "Why?"

"It's complicated."

"Then _un_complicate it."

He unclenched his protective stance and crossed his arms. "You're quite passionate about your job."

Seeing her father so close just behind this meddling FBI agent, Sarah bit her lip. She was swallowing the urge to shove her bony little fist where the sun didn't shine, considering she was lined up so perfectly, but figured it might permanently separate her from her father. "Yeah..." she whispered. "Passionate."

"Well, I'm sorry, but this man has twenty-four hour care by the assigned duty nurses...speaking of which, here she comes now."

Sarah put a hand to her face and groaned quietly, "Oh crap."

The duty nurse had returned and couldn't help but be distracted by the wheelchair in the middle of the room, especially when it definitely wasn't hospital issue. She slowed and eventually stopped at Sarah's side. "Who are you?"

Abel snapped his head up. "You don't know her?"

"I've never seen her before."

"I'm new here." Sarah explained quickly. "Just started last week."

The nurse offered a cynical, slant-mouthed smirk in response. "Hon, I'm in charge of any and all volunteers at this hospital. You're not one of them."

Abel couldn't believe a young girl in a wheelchair and breathing with the help of an oxygen tank was here as someone either hoping to finish the job Savannah started with the pillow or some kind of rescue attempt; he had a flash of her pulling out one of those black masks, a gun to each hand and shooting up the room. If Joseph's identity and location was exposed, there would be a tidal wave of reporters on this place in no time flat. She obviously had some kind of inside information. He leaned down, each hand on an armrest. "Who are you?"

"She's my daughter."

The amount of memories associated with that disembodied voice nearly gave him a stroke. Mouth gaping, Abel slowly raised his eyes to the source, only to find Rose Hawkins standing at the door. Older, her hair was longer, left side of her face inexplicably scarred. "Rose..." he whispered and dropped his head, the young woman's identity suddenly crystal clear. "Sarah."

* * *

He was amazed at the circus. His career was full of media frenzies over high-profile cases before, but this set the bar to a new height; reporters were practically climbing over one another for the chance of an interview, a glimpse, a soundbite, _something_ to send back to their newsroom.

As he was escorted inside police headquarters, federal prosecutor Gabriel Logan stopped just before he entered the doors and took one last sweeping look at the crowd gathered around the entire block and beyond. He would've rather kept this quiet as civilian interference often complicated his job to the point of impossibility, but he had to at least concede to the sheer absurdity of it all. Turning to enter the building, he noticed it was just as crowded and hectic as the streets outside. The attack on the Square had the same effect as stirring up a giant anthill and he scanned through the crowd looking for his contact. Out of all the personnel inside, mulling around the lobby, one stood out with a stiff posture and a weedy, pinpointed glare cutting a swath through the masses. Plain, pressed suit, impeccable hair, the man staring him down from the middle of the room had to be a government agent. Logan hurried over, hand extended. "You must be agent Phillip Neville."

A cold hand took his. Agent Neville nodded curtly. "Yes."

"My apologies, I would've been here sooner but I was held up."

"It's all right."

Logan suddenly released and squirmed out of the way of an officer sporting a large shotgun. He swallowed at the sight of it, adjusting his tie. "Is...is there somewhere we can speak in private? I don't do well in crowds, especially when most of that crowd is heavily armed."

"Follow me." Neville started off towards a corner of the lobby, through a warren of desks overflowed with paperwork and towards what Logan assumed was an office. He just barely allowed Logan to slip through the doorway before closing it and setting the latch. "I presume you noticed the crowd outside?" Neville said quickly.

"Hard to miss." Logan replied from over his shoulder. He'd already set his briefcase down on the lone table in the middle of the room. "I don't know if you're aware, agent Neville, but the crowd actually starts two and a half blocks away."

"Oh, I'm aware. Those reporters are practically foaming at the mouth and their numbers are growing." Neville started pacing, wringing his fingers on the inside of his palms. "The news of live gargoyles has spread across the world in less than half a night."

"Hail to the twenty-four hour news channel."

"Our society's penchant for wanting information at light speed is becoming a serious liability to our job."

"Regardless," Logan interjected, "we _will_ do our job. This entire situation is unprecedented, and the federal government is incredibly interested in the outcome. After all the years of rumors, hearsay and blurry footage, we finally have live gargoyles in custody."

Neville whirled on him. "Well, before you start your official investigation, I should tell you that special agent Sykes has made the apparent leader of the creatures a deal. He takes the entire blame and absolves the rest."

But much to the agent's surprise, Logan remained composed; he didn't even bat an eyelash. "Well, under special circumstances, he would have the authority to do so." he said plainly. "This deal of his will stand until it goes through several hierarchical levels of the NYPD, the FBI, the government, etc, etc, etc. Litigation will go on for days, weeks, maybe months. But frankly, the others are inconsequential right now. All we need is one gargoyle. First put on the show for the masses, quell the distrust in our government and stem the tide of anger and fear. Get the city to calm down before anyone gets hurt."

"If those gargoyles are guilty," Neville reinforced his argument, "then they all need to be put behind bars."

"If we can get a conviction for one, it will only open the door for a larger investigation into the rest of the gargoyles without any interference, especially from any law enforcement officer or some rabid pro-gargoyle group." Logan pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, idly swimming through the contents of his briefcase, his eyes just over the lid. They flicked up, centering on the agent. "But let me ask you a question, do you think they're guilty?"

"Personally or professionally?"

He gestured ambiguously through the face. "You're an agent of the FBI. There shouldn't be a difference."

"Yes, I think they're guilty." Neville answered honestly, albeit quickly. "I assume you've seen the footage from Times Square?"

"Yes, and any good defense lawyer would argue self-defense, and any jury would believe that. From the perspective we were presented with, the gargoyles didn't start that fight, they returned only to save one of their own. Actually a very noble act."

"They're dangerous! I think they should be rounded up, removed from the general populace and placed in a secure area."

"Like in a zoo? Or were you leaning more towards something of a concentration camp?"

Blindsided, agent Neville fidgeted at the comparison, those squirrelly brows clenching.

"Do you want to rethink that suggestion, agent Neville?" Logan added with the hint of a smirk.

Neville squirmed in his suit like a snake in its skin, until he shored up and stayed firm on his belief. "Police round up criminals."

"Because they've committed a crime. Does your evidence suggest all of these gargoyles currently in custody committed a crime?"

A forced breath heaved through thin lips. "No." Neville answered reluctantly.

"No. And your file agrees with me. In fact, it seems concentrated on the gargoyle leader." Logan snatched a file folder from the pile sprung from the dark leather briefcase and started through the contents. "He's being charged with assault, theft, and is suspected to be a participant in several underwater bombings. Now, the case against him is quite strong, something I can work with, but the only witness you have to the assault charges is the victim himself, Jon Canmore, aka John Castaway."

"He's still the _victim_."

Another file appeared in his hand, but Logan didn't quite need it; Canmore's exploits had become something of a modern legend in the legal system. "A victim with a history of violence against anything gargoyle and according to several psychiatrists, a tenuous grasp on his sanity. He's served time in prison." He cocked his head. "Will he only end up hurting the prosecution by taking the stand?"

"In the eyes of the law, he served his time. He's officially pressed charges, and he has the legal right to face his attacker." Neville argued. "Plus, he might have knowledge we don't."

"Knowledge that can't be substantiated."

"Whether or not you decide to use him as a hostile witness, I think you owe him an interview at the very least."

Logan replaced the folder to his briefcase and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll allow him the chance to explain himself and offer anything that can help us, but I don't want him anywhere near a courtroom if he's going to damage this case. This is something far beyond simple justice. It is peeling back over ten years of history, where the city and state of New York, not to mention the entire world, has suffered through incidents that can't be explained. New York is the focal point, and it seems as are the gargoyles. I agree with you, agent, if these gargoyles pose a threat, they will be captured and detained, indefinitely if necessary."

"I'd assume Canmore might have something to say about that," Neville kept pushing, "with a very unique point of view."

Logan took a moment for silent consideration. "The investigation has only begun." he said. "I'll be speaking with anyone with a legitimate connection to the gargoyles."

"Then I suggest you also include David Xanatos."

That warranted his full attention. "Xanatos?" Logan repeated. "I thought he was cleared of any connection."

Neville nodded. "Officially, yes."

"And unofficially?"

He glanced away, eyes running across the spartanly furnished room. "He's hiding something..."

"A gut instinct isn't enough to bring a man in for questioning."

Neville then grabbed something from a banker's box on the table, labeled with a red evidence sticker. He held up the communication device found on Brooklyn at the time of his arrest. "Is this?"

He examined the tiny device. It looked familiar, but this particular little thing was more advanced than anything else he'd ever seen. And engraved on the back was a familiar logo.

"It was found on the gargoyle."

"The Scarab Corporation?" he said, and started nodding. "It's enough."

* * *

Abel could've immediately called for one of the numerous officers outside to cuff this woman and haul her off to a jail cell, but after everything that had happened in the last two days–hell, _the last twenty years_–he figured it was just a waste of time, effort and taxpayers' money. Seeing Rose like that was enough to blow a synapse or two and he suddenly wanted to lie down on the first available bed.

He remembered her gliding forward (her floor-length robes obscured any movement from the waist down) and coming to rest just behind the young woman staring knives at the agent. "Hello, Abel." she said.

And he acquiesced. "Hello, Rose." He studied the burn-scars trailing half the length of the left side of her face, staring so long Rose had to turn away. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to stare..."

She forced her mouth into a weak half-smile. "It's all right, Abel. We've both changed."

He instinctively rubbed his forehead and the slowly-growing expanse between his brows and hairline. "Yeah...Rose, those scars..."

A few fingers followed the hard, gristly flesh from cheek to chin, before Rose realized she'd even raised her hand. Abel was one of those last ties to a former life and she couldn't help but feel self-conscious in front of him. "There was a fire..." she whispered and trailed off.

"How?"

"Old church, flammable robes." she summarized, encompassing several years worth of pain and recovery into a few simple words. "It...it was a long time ago, Abel."

His curiosity sated for the moment, Abel just nodded his head. But something in his crumpled, ready-to-erupt expression told more than what he was willing to share.

"Are you angry?" she asked suddenly, sensing an underlying tension.

"That you're here?"

"Yes."

"I'm angrier that you've apparently been here for years, living in my city," then through gritted teeth, "_under my goddamned nose_."

Rose couldn't help but secretly revel in Abel's frustration. A hint of a smile kissed her lips. "You know I couldn't have stayed away."

"You could've been killed." he argued.

"I know, but I needed to see my son."

Two decades worth of anger, helplessness and pain threatened to explode at Rose, but it all just dribbled out as an anemic breath. He always found it impossible to stay mad at her. "Fine...fine, _fine_. Listen, I'm willing to play nice for now, especially considering the circumstances involving your family and _your in-laws_–"

Rose pinked through the cheeks. He was obviously aware of her son's choice in wife.

"But I need cooperation from you, your son, and your daughter."

Abel and Rose both looked down. But where Sarah's chair was supposed to be, there was only an empty spot of linoleum. While the grown-ups were both taking a trip down memory lane, Sarah had quietly wheeled away to her father's bedside.

Rose found her daughter at the side of the lump of flesh, on closer inspection, which closely resembled her estranged husband, if not for the sheer amount of tubes running in and out of his body. "What's going to happen to him?"

However hard it was for him to see his old friend and partner laid up like a human pincushion, it must have been murder for Rose. Abel sighed, "If he recovers–"

But Sarah stepped on his tongue. "_When_ he recovers."

Just like her brother. "Of course. _When_ he recovers, he'll be charged."

"And then what?"

Abel answered, though he suspected the young woman already knew exactly what he'd say. "He'll no doubt spend the rest of his life in prison."

"On what charges?"

He listed them off on his fingers, "Murder, attempted murder, manslaughter, attempted manslaughter, destruction of property, evading arrest..."

"And you have evidence to back this up?"

Abel saw where the family resemblance to Todd branched off onto a different road; she had his mouth, but unlike her older brother it seemed like it was actually attached to her brain. "Plenty, Ms. Hawkins. I personally owe the pleasure of having a gun barrel shoved in my face to my old partner there, and I'm pretty sure your brother could build a strong case. Along with the gargoyles."

Sarah's shoulders hunched and knotted at the very mention. Just the thought of gargoyles accusing _her father_–but, she reasoned as she sat there holding his cold, limp hand, they would have every right. Her father was leader of the Guild, her father ordered the death of every gargoyle in that castle, including her brother, her father arranged the attacks, the carnage, the death...

Rose slowly moved forward, and held her daughter as she sobbed into the sheets. She wondered exactly what Sarah's reaction to the realization of just what her father had become would be, once the stubborn fog of denial had lifted, and when it would hit her. Seems both questions were answered, like a bat to the side of the head and just as painful.

"I'm so sorry, Sarah." Abel said from around her shoulder. "But to be honest, I'm glad he was caught and I'm glad he'll go to prison, because I'd hate to imagine the alternative."

Enrapt with her husband, his sheeted chest jerking with every mechanical breath, Rose managed in a shaky voice, "Abel...you and I both know what twenty years of hatred and anger did to him, but I need to know if he'll be treated fairly."

"As fair as anyone else."

A snort through her nostrils was her only answer; Rose kneeled behind Sarah's wheelchair and wrapped around her daughter's shoulders.

"Listen," Abel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, "I need some coffee. I'll treat you to a cup."

"Thank you, Abel." she whispered into the fine sable breadth of Sarah's hair.

"Consider it a bribe."

She turned an eye towards him. "For?"

"Information." he said bluntly. "We've got twenty years to catch up on."

"Can we stay here? With Joseph?"

What harm a nun and a wheelchair-bound woman could cause was negligible, Abel was sure, but the Hawkins bloodline bore cunning and persuasiveness on an unbelievable scale. Rose had already bluffed her way past security and Sarah tried to con her way to a patient under FBI protection. "Yeah, of course." he said warily. "But only with the guarantee that you two won't try anything else. I'll let the staff know."

"Double cream then," she muffled through the hair, "no sugar."

"I remember."

* * *

Dusk almost went unnoticed by most of the city, except for those who knew the significance of what night would bring.

Sequestered inside this tiny room, Brooklyn had been under guard all day despite the fact he was frozen in stone. The officers changed every few hours and stood watch over the sleeping gargoyle, all the while fighting their own fatigue, nervousness and boredom, but this particular shift were about to be witness to something more than sculpted rock. The only indication that the sun had set was the sound of stone splitting against what wriggled for freedom inside.

Brooklyn's still form cracked and shimmied, dropping small chunks to the floor and startling the guards enough to nearly cause three simultaneous heart attacks. The statue leaned forward and stone crumbled around the gargoyle suddenly come to life. It wasn't until the rush of adrenaline had faded that he was reminded of the shackles by the sudden weight wanting to pull him beak first to the floor. He steadied, grimaced; the loose shards that broke free from his forearms and shins were now trapped under the steel, digging into his flesh. Looking around, he found himself surrounded by three armed police officers, itchy fingers on the trigger of each large, fully-loaded automatic rifle. They'd obviously never seen a gargoyle explode from what used to be a particularly detailed sculpture. "Evening."

They continued staring at him, until the guard closest to him motioned with a flick of his head towards the chair. "Sit down."

"Right..." Brooklyn muttered, and shuffled towards the chair.

The guards followed him and took up positions both in front and behind as he hunkered down. One of the guards lowered his weapon and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. "We're going to take the shackles off for a moment, to let the rest of your...ah, skin, come off."

"Thanks."

"If you so much as twitch–"

"I'm going to be breathing through a new hole," Brooklyn finished for him, eyes grave, "got it."

"Good." The guard unlocked the shackles on his legs first and allowed the gargoyle to flex his calf muscles and shake any loose fragments to the floor. He reattached them and stood up, unlocking the set of shackles that bound his arms, covering the brick-red flesh from wrist to elbow. Once free Brooklyn lifted his arms up (they felt strangely feather-light) and rubbed his wrists, splaying and flexing his clawed fingers. The simple gesture elicited a response from the nervous guards with enough firepower between them to level the place. They jerked and Brooklyn froze.

"_Whoa, whoa!_ I'm cool, I'm cool, just stretching out the kinks." he explained hurriedly. "I'm still healing from a few wounds, and I'm sure if you guys spent all day encased in stone you'd be a little stiff too."

After a moment of silent deliberation, they relented and Brooklyn begrudgingly lowered his arms back into the shackles. They swallowed the red flesh from wrist to elbow, and he shuddered right down to the bones when they clamped shut and locked.

"See? I'm playing nice. We're all friends here."

The lockmaster retreated quickly and whether it was motivated by fear or hatred, didn't offer much in the area of conversation as he joined his companions. They felt better out of arm's reach.

"Listen, pal, I don't care what anyone says," Brooklyn said to his backside, "I'm not dangerous, and I'm not going to hurt anyone."

He didn't get a response, just a pair of guarded leers from the others.

Stretching his neck until hearing the faint pop from under the jowl, he growled, "Fine." and sat hunched in his metal chair. "Let's just sit here and stare at each other."

A few anxious minutes passed until the tension broke when the door's latch was thrown and opened to the room (a cell without bars, but the cold sterility of windowless walls was reminder enough this was a prison); everyone inside each lost a year off their respective life-spans.

Expecting agent Sykes, Brooklyn instead found the weasel-cheeked agent Neville making his way inside. "Hello, agent Neville." he smiled at him.

Neville regarded him as if he was a dog who'd piddled on the carpet, expression turned sour. His tiny black eyes scoured the gargoyle's limbs; his injuries looked almost fully healed. "Good evening. I hope you're feeling better this evening."

"_Peachy._"

"As you well know," he said stiffly, "you've been officially charged and, depending on the federal prosecutor, will be arraigned for charges stemming from the attack on Jon Canmore, among others."

"Yeah, got that." Brooklyn was flippant. "You have anything new to tell me? Any more rights you want to take away from me?"

"On the contrary, you'll be granted the right to council like every other man to pass through the New York justice system. I actually only came here in order to tell you that you've been assigned a public defender...as good as it will do..."

The curl in his spine suddenly uncurled. "Really."

"Don't get your hopes up."

As Neville turned to leave, he almost got a door in the kisser when it suddenly swung open. He prevented major damage by quickly throwing a hand out to block it, only to hear a surprised yelp from the other side. "_Hey...!_"

"Oh, I'm sorry," an apology was quickly thrown out, "I bet that would've hurt something fierce."

The agent was ruffled, but only briefly. Composure struck lightning quick, the stiff lip returning. He tugged on his lapels like he was going to rip the suit jacket right off and cocked his narrow jaw. "Yes, well...try to be more careful in the future."

"Of course."

"I assume you're here to talk with your client?"

"Yes." A slender hand, braceleted by a slim, leather-strapped watch and gold chain, flicked into view and formed a thumb. It jerked back towards the door. "And the guards can go too."

Neville's expression was enough to convey his astonishment. He couldn't believe the gall... "I would recommend them staying. That creature is dangerous."

"I've seen the shackles, agent Neville. Those suckers could drag the Titanic down. He's not going to do a damned thing."

"Fine." Neville waved the guards outside and followed behind, but not before adding, "We'll be just outside if you need us."

"Yes, yes." From behind the door the owner of the mystery voice revealed herself. In walked a woman with a stride like chewing gum, albeit a little ungainly with some added weight around the midsection. "Dick..." she muttered and mule-kicked the door closed.

His beak pursed at the sight.

Sable hair gathered loosely in a bun with black chopsticks speared through the center, thin-framed glasses and a subtle earth-tone lipstick, this was definitely a woman camouflaging the ability to light a young man's pants on fire. A tailored suit-jacket buttoned over a Stackhouse form and a stomach obviously swelled from a middle-stage pregnancy, she completed the ensemble with a matching knee-length skirt and low-heeled pumps.

But Brooklyn knew those legs. He knew those hips and breasts, but the belly was new. On finally getting back to the woman's face, something nagged at the back of his mind. Chocolate? Whipped cream? He had to search his memory to match face to name, location and circumstance, but that particular memory had been drenched in the fog of liquor and debauchery, thus, it took him a while. His brows unclenched once everything fell into place. "Aren't you...?"

"Stephanie Helms," she said quickly, and held out a hand, "public defender."

Brooklyn hefted the shackles to prove he wasn't reciprocating out of choice.

She put her hand down, replaced it to her side and smiled weakly. "Sorry. Well, it's good to meet you."

"Yeah, but...uh, I think we've met before..."

The woman was very firm in her answer. "No, we haven't. At least not in any professional capacity."

He groaned, "I'm being defended by a stripper–"

"Former stripper." she caught him quickly, adjusting her glasses. Apparently she didn't quite like the reminder of her former profession. Stephanie took to the chair opposite her new client, slowly easing into the seat with the extra baggage she was carrying around. "I only started dancing because the money was good and I was paying my way through law school."

"That was six months ago."

"Yes, my how time flies, hmm?"

Brooklyn's expression was a fusion of worry and incredulousness. "That was _only_ six months ago." he reiterated.

"I am a fully qualified public defender." Stephanie said. "_With_ a valid license. I graduated in the top tenth percentile and aced the bar exam my first shot at it."

That expression hadn't changed, stuck to his mouth and brow like glue.

"I know," she sighed, becoming used to that look whenever someone asked her how long she'd actually been practicing law or what she did between classes at the Sterling Minx Gentlemen's Club, "I'm young and relatively inexperienced, but frankly, there weren't a lot of people jumping out of their seat wanting to defend you. I'm the only one who volunteered before they were forced to assign someone else."

"I figured this would be a high-profile case."

"Only if it even gets to court."

"Only if...?" He stopped mid-sentence and then, Brooklyn chuckled to himself; after being shackled and threatened with experimentation he was at a loss to explain why he thought he'd be granted the same rights as a human, despite what agent Neville said. "Let me guess, because I'm not human I might not be treated fairly."

"The right to a fair trial is explicitly proclaimed in Article Ten of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the Sixth Amendment to the United States Constitution, and Article Six of the European Convention of Human Rights, as well as numerous other constitutions and declarations throughout the world."

A brow curled. "You know your stuff."

"Top ten percentile. Not bad for a former stripper, hmm?"

"Of course, I couldn't help but hear the word human in there a few times." Brooklyn reminded her. "They might have to rewrite the book when it comes to me, and it might not be to my liking."

Stephanie tried to be as comforting as possible, despite the upward climb turned expedition up Everest's steepest slope this particular case was turning out to be. "True." she replied. "I can't guarantee anything. I could be kicked out of here as soon as the federal prosecutor decides he doesn't like me."

"And if it does get to court, why would they let a rookie anywhere near a gargoyle?"

"You're right. That's peculiar, isn't it? Of course, this is just the preliminary, but I think the reason why allowed me anywhere near you is because they don't want me, or anyone else in my position, to necessarily succeed."

"That'd be my guess."

"But it might also be the city's need to exert their authority from that of the federal government."

"Or they think it's funny letting an inexperienced, pregnant female defend a gargoyle."

There was a glimmer of that woman who'd once held a six-inch stiletto heel to the crotch of a man with sticky fingers in the simple gesture of raising a brow. "You have a problem with a woman defending you?"

He was quick on the defense, "Not at all, but I'm not blind to human prejudices, as archaic as they're supposed to be."

"Look at it this way, would you rather be defended by someone who believes in your innocence and wants to clear you of all the charges? Or someone who would only stand at your side because their paycheck depends on it or how they can boost their own career by being in the limelight, despite what their personal feelings are on gargoyles?"

"Point taken."

"I can tell you now, there were a few sharks circling...besides," she patted her stomach, "having a pregnant lawyer might give us an edge with the jury. You know, the bright-eyed young underdog defending an innocent man against the massive, often prejudiced justice system."

"I want to convince any jury of my innocence, not play to their sympathies."

"Welcome to the human justice system."

Brooklyn grunted in response, "I've already felt the love." And the simple gesture of his chest heaving reminded him of the weight of his shackles.

Stephanie laced her fingers on the desk in front of her. "Now, if I'm going to do my job correctly, I need you to tell me everything. Starting, of course, with your name."

* * *

The first thought on Hudson's mind as the mist of sleep cleared into the white-hot, lambent glow of his eyes, his skin powdering into shards on the floor, was his rookery son. His own flesh and blood yes, but no more important than any other hatchling.

He stepped over the pile of crumbled stone and towards Broadway's hospital bed, before any of the clan even had the chance to feel the bloodflow return. The boy was a far-cry from the limp rag-doll puddled on the bed half a day ago, blood oozing from his leg; Broadway was already halfway out of his skin and struggling to completely free himself from the rest by thrashing wildly.

The ruckus of half-mangled growls and a few pieces of equipment being thrown to the floor had obviously reached as far back as the office, when doctor Pierce came sprinting into the infirmary with his coat-tails trailing behind him like a pair of stained wings. Appearing suddenly from the hovel of papers and journals, empty take-out food containers and assorted medical clutter he claimed as his office, he sidled up to Broadway and the bandages around his thigh that had literally burst open as the muscle flexed to shed the stone skin, revealing the wound underneath. "Okay! It's okay!"

"Broadway!"

Broadway groaned as he fought to stay awake. With his brain in neutral, instinct took control and reacted rather unenthusiastically to the cold metal bars of the hospital bed, the remaining flecks and slivers of his own skin and the heavy, bone-deep fatigue. The gargoyle roared his frustration until something clamped down on his chest.

"_Broadway!_"

Eyes fluttered, shapes coalesced into something recognizable and he realized that pressure on his chest was a thick, weathered hand.

Hudson kept his elbow locked until the boy could get a grip on himself. Tachi and Nashville helped clean him of his skin, as Pierce continued his inspection. Rain and Annika waited nearby just in case Broadway decided he'd rather get up and steamroll over Hudson in the process. "Yuir okay, lad." he said. "Yuir home, yuir safe. Now settle down!"

Broadway relented, head lolling around on the pillow. He was still drugged up.

Lowering his arm, Hudson stepped back and allowed the twins to brush the rest of the shards into containers. "Doctor?"

"Looks pretty good." Pierce nodded. His sutures were whittled to a faint discolored line, but everything appeared to be sealed tight. The leg was warm, the pulse was steady and the color was just as aquamarine as the rest of him.

"_Pretty good?_" Hudson echoed. "Can ye be a little more specific? Is he all right?"

Pierce was unperturbed as he held a few fingers to Broadway's arterial pulse and timed it against his watch. "I think he'll heal just fine."

"Good." Satisfied, Annika immediately flipped open the cellphone like a gunslinger would draw his Smith & Wesson and started dialing Todd's number. But it went straight to message. Again. Her hand shook with her frustration. "Damnit...where is he?"

"Maria said he's fine." Hudson tried to comfort her.

"Not very reassuring."

"Are ye calling my girl a liar?"

She turned to find a hint of sarcasm underneath an otherwise stern look. "Far from it, but I'd like to hear that from him...or see him with my own eyes, considering a good seven hours have passed."

It didn't take much or too long for Hudson to figure out what she was thinking. He shot a hand at her. "Now, lassie, just wait..."

"I'm going to go." she announced, shoulders back.

"Are ye insane?"

Rain shrugged, then squeaked, "Maybe we should...?"

"And accomplish what?" Hudson asked. "Getting yuirselves caught, arrested or even killed? Or are ye forgetting about what ye carry around in yuir belly?"

It was hard to forget something slowly outgrowing the sight of her feet and throwing her balance off like a one-legged giraffe, but Annika couldn't ignore the very reason for her condition. Stuck in the hornet's nest. Second-hand information didn't quite equate to a sense of relief. "My husband is down there, and I doubt you'd be so intent to sit on your ass if it were Maria in his position."

"That boy's been taking care of himself long before he knew you. He's safe now, an' perhaps he's not callin' ye because he doesna wish t' expose himself."

For a second, Annika formed a mental picture of her husband standing on one of the numerous news vans and zipping down his fly in front of a crowd hungry for front page news.

"I have a hunch yui're just worried he's about t' do something stupid." Hudson continued.

"Well if that's not good enough of a reason, I don't know what is."

"Ye're actually arguing his stupidity?"

"Wouldn't you?"

For a moment, Hudson didn't have an answer; it was illogical logic.

And his hesitation gave Rain a chance to interject, "He _does_ have serious impulse control issues."

"Right." Annika nodded. "I'm going, exposure or not."

"...no..."

Something croaked. The voice was hoarse and barely recognizable, slurred by a heavy stew of medication.

The clan turned around to see Broadway awake and staring at them. His eyes were cloudy and half-lidded, his mouth not quite closed as if he couldn't muster the strength to lock his jaw.

"Lad..." Hudson shuffled towards him and then stopped at his bedside. "Are ye all right?"

It took him a moment to process the question. Even with a full day's sleep, the last dregs of anesthesia were still choking his brain. "...okay..." He turned his head to his leg, and the discolored line running down his thigh. The bandage had torn off with his stone skin, exposing the aftermath of a bullet drilling through meat and sinew. "I suppose..." His brows gathered; his memory was fragmented. "My leg?"

"You had surgery last night." Pierce answered. "We had to patch a hole in your femoral artery, but you should be fine, thanks to Mother."

"Mother...?"

"She helped rebuild a big chunk of it. Seems she's quite skilled at surgical techniques."

"Well," he muttered, tenderly rubbing the skin, "remind me to thank her."

"I'm sure she's slithering around somewhere..." Pierce replied absentmindedly. He was too involved in Broadway's wound to even raise his eyes through the peppered strands.

His expression rippled with ambivalence. There was a part of him that didn't quite enjoy the thought of having microscopic machines swimming around inside any single part of him, but considering one of his last memories was of a searing pain as something exploded out the back of his leg, he figured he was alive by the grace of those same machines. He squinted as Pierce suddenly flicked a small flashlight in front of his eyes. The irises shriveled to pinpricks; it felt like the beam went straight through and into his head. The veil was lifting, bringing his surroundings into agonizingly sharp focus. The fluorescent strips above were glaring, sounds were amplified tenfold, and he swore he could only see part of the clan standing around him. "...all right...what's happened?"

The question met with awkward silence. Hudson growled something under his breath, the twins looked at each other, Annika rubbed a talon over the phone's number pad and Rain bit her lip.

"Brooklyn..." Hudson started. "He's under arrest."

The hospital bed groaned at the sudden movement of six hundred pounds. "_What?_"

"He and Jon Canmore were caught with their hands around each other's throat." Annika continued. "Apparently, according to Jason's mole, he took the figurative bullet for the rest of the clan. He made a deal for their safety."

"The clan..." Broadway was suddenly and acutely aware there was only half a clan in the room, the half left when all the able warriors were taken away, leaving the pregnant, small and underage. "Where are they...?"

"Police headquarters."

Apparently he'd missed a lot in the last day. He let his head crash against the bed, and grimaced through the ensuing wave of pain. "How...?"

Hudson jumped in, his voice like gravel, "What was left of th' Guild shot up Times Square. They took a hostage, calling for th' clan."

"And they went."

His eyes were dark, hidden under his brows. There was guilt there for being left behind, hooked by a tiny tube to his son's artery. If able, he would've led with the full length of his sword gleaming in the moonlight. "Aye."

"Todd's there too." Annika pointed out. "I need to go see him. See if he's okay."

Broadway remembered in full. He woke to a voice saying the exact same thing. Though he had no idea why he didn't want that voice to leave, it must have been instinct. "No."

"What does one more gargoyle matter?"

"More than you could ever know. And as Second, I'm officially in command until Brooklyn gets back..."

"But–"

"_No!_" he growled, willing the sluggish effects of the anesthetic away. "Everyone stays here...until we can figure something out. Now, give me every single detail..."

* * *

Dominic was becoming sick of waiting.

He might as well have been handcuffed to the radiator near his chair. He'd only ventured so far out of the room to grab a coffee or something to eat before returning, ensuring those statues were still statues and no one had accidentally broken off a finger. In honest truth he actually missed that Hawkins kid, if only for the mild distraction from the boredom. He'd lost track of the time without windows and wasn't aware the sun was setting until he heard a peculiar sound.

He figured he was absentmindedly crushing his Styrofoam cup and loosened his grip. But the sound didn't stop. His brain slightly numbed from the last few hours of guarding glorified sculptures, awareness came a few seconds later than it should and he lifted his eyes to the clan.

A crack the width of spider silk had driven a line down the chest of the big, surly male, and for a minute, Dominic thought he'd broken it, him, _whatever!_ He'd walked circles around the group of sleep-frozen gargoyles, looking, inspecting, dissecting; there was a moment where he'd reached out and grazed his fingertips across the stone out of interest and now, almost exactly where he'd touched, a fissure was opening wide down the big guy's chest. "Jesus..." He had a momentary flash of entrails oozing out of the hole he'd somehow caused, pooling to the carpet with sickening wet slurps. It wasn't until he saw another crack working its way in a zig-zag across his Othello's bicep, chipping off a large piece and revealing the dusty skin tone underneath, that he realized the stone was merely peeling away from flesh and blood forms. The statues started moving, crumbling away from whatever was inside trying to free themselves. Eyes glowing blood red and supernova white, deep, chill-inducing growls, wing membranes snapping taught with the loud crack of a bullwhip. Curiosity gave common sense the boot and he inched forwards; he'd only finally apprehend just how much of a mistake this was when the gargoyles raised their arms and flexed, endorphins distending muscle to the breaking point to shed their carapace.

"_Shit!_"

Within seconds, shards and tattered remnants of bandages littered the floor and the gargoyles took their first breaths in the form of chorused screams and howls, as if someone had set off fireworks at the local zoo, sending all the animals into a deafening frenzy.

Othello immediately grabbed Bronx by the scruff of his neck and exerted enough pressure to keep him still and pacified, until the beast calmed down enough to realize he was still stuck in this strange room. While the rest of the females shook the remaining shards loose from their hair, Desdemona blinked and shook her head; the warm rush of morphine from the night before left spots in front of her eyes.

Dominic slowly lowered his arm, put up to deflect the shrapnel threatening to put an eye out, and stared in bewilderment.

They stared back. There were mixed emotions running through the group; though relieved everyone was still, _literally_, in one piece, their frustration in still being trapped in this room could be measured by the deepening scowl on Othello's mouth. There wasn't going to be a miraculous rescue orchestrated by David Xanatos and all his far-reaching resources.

"Uhm..." Dominic struggled for the right word, "good evening."

Lexington loped towards him and the agent instinctively took a step backwards. "Has there been any change?" he asked. "With our leader?"

It took a second to connect brain to mouth. "No, but the federal prosecutor arrived a little while ago and is looking over the case."

"So there's a chance he could be put on trial?"

He could see his reflection in those big eyes, and had to continually remind himself not to stare. But that just resulted in awkward glances back and forth. "Yeah...and I don't know whether or not that's a good thing."

"You mean, if he's found guilty."

"Yeah. That wouldn't be good."

Footsteps Dominic could feel through the floor alerted him to Othello's proximity. The tallest in the room by about a foot, Othello had to bend over at the waist to meet the lanky human face to scowl-carved face. "_Explain_." he growled monosyllabically.

He almost forgot his own name under the hot, heavy breath of a gargoyle ready to tear him a new hole. "Well...I can't imagine how a gargoyle would fare in the prison system. If he'd even make it to prison..."

"What?"

"_I'm just saying_..."

Lexington thinned his eyes in deep thought. "So he could be facing a sentence in some kind of isolated government facility."

"This is all just speculation, mind you." Dominic said. It was hard to form a coherent thought with a gargoyle breathing hot fumes in his face. "I have no idea."

It wasn't until Desdemona grabbed her mate by the arm and forced him away that Othello finally relented. He wandered off to the other side of the room, muttering tenth century obscenities. "What will become of _us?_" she asked.

"Abel–that is, _agent Sykes_–wants to hold you here for a little while longer. He thinks you're safer in police custody."

Like a cat being rubbed against the grain, Othello bristled and stormed towards the thin human. "We are safer on our own!" It took both hands on his chest to push him away, Desdemona locking her elbows and digging her talons into the carpet.

The clever sister wandered around her brother as he was corralled and calmed. "I didn't have much of a chance to learn modern human culture before being trampled by the Set creature–"

Dominic did a double-take, "_What?_"

"Wait, no..." She shook her head. Her memories of that night were still a little jumbled; several thousand volts of electricity can wreak havoc on the synapses. "No, I destroyed Set, and then a building fell on me. Yes, the building. But I'm wondering just how we'll be safest here. Humans often fear us, and I fear they may blame us for the incident with the Guild."

"Maybe, or maybe you can help prove your innocence, and that of your leader."

"And what if we wish to leave?"

"Well," he said quietly, "you can't leave...not yet, at least."

"So we're just as much prisoners as our leader." Angela huffed.

Dominic could easily see himself closing control over a room full of angry, irritated gargoyles and tried to inject some kind of calm into the situation. "Maybe you should wait and talk to Abel..."

Nothing else was said. Othello just seemed to sneer in the background.

"And what about our clanmate? The one who was injured in Times Square?"

"She's...in the hospital. Abel headed there hours ago, but I haven't heard anything else. I guess he was waiting for her to wake up."

Angela mantled her wings about her shoulders in a quick and fluid movement, and crossed her arms.

Dominic knew the frustrated expression well and he swore he could hear something gurgling at the back of her throat, like an angry cat about to strike. He figured one wrong word could set off the room like a random spark against a natural gas leak, until he remembered something that, at the very least, could take their minds off of killing him. "Here." He quickly backed away and threw his arm behind one of the couches. "One of the SWAT team members recovered these from the scene." What he pulled out went unrecognized until Dominic approached Lexington and presented them. The black cord-wrapped handle, gold-glinting guard, the elegantly plain dark-wood and lacquer scabbard; it was Katana's sword. The shorter sword, the matching wakizashi, was bound to its cousin with a couple of zip-ties.

Taking the bundle, Lexington rubbed a hand down the longer sword's smooth sheath. It looked old, but felt even older against his hyper-sensitive touch. "Is she going to be all right?"

Dominic just tightened through the mouth and started shaking his head. "I truly don't know."

"Then maybe you should tell us where she is, and let us go to her."

"I can't." he said sympathetically. "Please understand that."

"And what if we decided to go without your permission?"

"You'd be breaking the law. And there's an entire building full of cops and FBI agents just outside that door, not to mention every reporter in Manhattan waiting out on the street. I don't envy your chances..."

Lexington handed off the swords to Delilah, who reverently clutched them to her left shoulder. "We could take you hostage." he said, and he had the feeling, by the twitchy body language and the slight increase in heartbeat, that the human couldn't quite tell if he was kidding or not.

"You could. But I think one deadly firefight is enough, don't you?"

The humor was appreciated, as was his affable demeanor, but was little comfort.

"I promise you," Dominic assured them, "as soon as I hear from Abel, you'll hear from me."

* * *

She awoke to something covering her face, almost suffocating her. Wanting to panic but unable to move, Katana tried to scream. She turned her head, heard a splinter and felt her skin peel from her face. Her stone shell slowly crumbled away, and her pupils suddenly contracted when bared to the light.

"...good lord..."

"...it's like she's shedding..."

Katana was aware of the voices, but something else was overriding that particular sense. There was a pain in her gut and it took a while for her brain to connect to the memory of being shot. Then dropping like a stone to cold asphalt, blood pooling around her stomach, the ambulance, a stupid, brave young human trying to save her, a hospital, voices, a mask, lightheadedness, colors, darkness, sleep. She tried her left hand, flexing her fingers from their husk, and then moved the entire arm; the bandages that'd once held gauze to bleeding wounds flexed and split.

Chief of surgery Henry Crispin watched as his patient clumsily emerged from her cocoon, like some drunken butterfly. But he imagined the process was normally a little less ungainly if she hadn't just suffered through a lifesaving operation. "Well, I'll be..." he whispered. "Quickly, before she asphyxiates..."

Two young nurses fell into view, delicately gathering the pieces of stone from her face and body and using empty bedpans as garbage cans. Crispin moved in close as soon as her torso was free and clear, his glasses perched at the end of his pock-marked nose and prodded his fingers across his handiwork; the surgical scars were barely visible, two weeks' worth of healing in ten hours, and his thread was lying in tatters on her stomach, presumably shredded when the mended skin forcefully glued itself back together. Whatever was left inside the body would soon be absorbed.

As disorientated as Katana was, she knew this strange sterile place wasn't the castle or the Eyrie's infirmary. The scent, what little she could distinguish through the disinfectant, was foreign. Her body felt like lead, her vision like soup, head like fog and she could barely move, let alone protest these humans from plucking stone shards from her skin. Though gentle, tentative even, their hands were uninvited and probing in a few areas only Brooklyn had been and where anyone else might lose a hand off the edge of her blade. They were efficient, and in minutes had her almost completely free and clean, but she was still lying on crumbs and shards and they decided just to move her.

Katana objected by yanking free and mewling her frustration. The hospital staff immediately recoiled, for fear of those talons taking a fair-sized chunk of flesh.

"Please don't move too much." a voice objected. "You've just been through some pretty major surgery."

She turned to see a kindly gentleman with wispy white hair and beady eyes peering from over thick rims. He seemed struck by her intense stare, but only for a moment. "I'm doctor Henry Crispin and you're at Bellevue hospital. You're recuperating from major surgery and even though you seem to heal quite fast, you could re-open your wounds."

The growling stopped.

"We want to move you to a clean bed...that is, if you'll let us."

Whether or not the female understood him, or was just too weak to resist, she seemed to relent.

A pair of orderlies lifted her from the bed and to another just alongside, then rolls of compression bandages were wrapped around her midsection and any other freshly closed wound. She was redressed in a hospital gown hastily tailored with scissors to fit her wings. The intravenous drip was threaded into an artery (they quickly explained it was medicine and painkillers), the heart monitor was clipped to her right index finger and Katana settled into the clean sheets, unable to do much else but watch. The room cleared except for that puckish man, who just kept watching her. She wanted to say something, but didn't know how it would be interpreted. Brooklyn often told her that staying silent was the best defense.

"You are an amazing..._being_, my dear." he said from the side. Doctor Crispin had taken to the stool again, rubbing his stubble in reflection. "If only all of my patients had your ability to heal, I figure I wouldn't have had to tell so many families their loved one didn't make it. You'll be weak for a while, maybe for a few days, and we'll get some solid food into you soon after some tests, but I think it's best just to stay in that bed."

He thought she was going to try to escape, Katana mused. Her legs were stiff, ten-ton deadweights, her reflexes dangerously dull, her stomach a roadmap of fresh scars; she might make the corridor just beyond the doorway before falling flat on her face. There were armed guards most likely; in her current condition and without any weapons she'd be forced back into her bed within minutes.

Then suddenly, she wondered where her swords were. They were antiques after all.

"Doctor?"

A voice from just outside of her field of vision caught the doctor's attention. Footsteps on the linoleum marked a visitor to the room. Katana couldn't see who it was.

"Yes?" answered doctor Crispin.

"I'm FBI special agent Abel Sykes."

A hand reached towards the surgeon's. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. They shook. "Yes, yes, good to meet you in person, agent Sykes."

"Abel. How's the patient?"

"Alive, well, healing, _quickly_. Your advice was correct. How did you know...?"

"I had inside information. May I...?"

"Of course, but be careful, she's in a mood."

"Well, you wake up in a strange place with wounds on your stomach and see how you feel."

Katana caught a whiff of the new arrival; coffee, with sugar, a pastry of some sort, vestiges of subtle cologne, and something incredibly familiar. _Brooklyn...?_ She barely had to turn her head when a man in a wrinkled suit leaned over her; his tie was loose, his collar unbuttoned, he looked like he hadn't slept in two days. Alarms went off. "I've been waiting a while for you to wake up." Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. "You must be Katana."

Her focus was suddenly pinpointed, like that fog had lifted, on this human with the glowing gold eyes and weathered features. He wasn't staring at her, gawking at her, silently scrutinizing; he was regarding her as if an old friend he hadn't seen for a good long while. Her gaze narrowed yet she said nothing, trying if anything to disguise the recognition of her own name.

But Abel knew. He saw the twitch. "It's okay. I spent last night talking with your...mate, I believe."

This human was clever. Katana simply turned her head away, feigning misinterpretation.

"Right..." he said. "Listen, I don't know if you can speak English, or speak at all for that matter, but I know you can understand me, like you understood the good doctor here..."

She bit her lip. This human was _indeed_ clever. Nothing seemed to escape those unusual eyes. But how long had he been watching...?

"You don't have to answer," Abel continued, "only listen. Your clan is in police custody, as is your mate, but he's been placed under arrest for some very serious charges. I think it's best if I take you to see him."

"Abel, I don't think that's best," Doctor Crispin protested, hopping off the stool, "she may be healing fast, but her condition is serious–"

"But stable, right?"

He sighed, "Yes. But I would still like to run some tests, make sure everything is healing properly."

"Trust me, with your surgical skills and her healing ability, she'll be fine. Can she be moved?"

The doctor's patient was practically being shanghaied right out from underneath him. "Yes, but..."

Abel looked over his shoulder, and the genial expression hardened. "Then get me her discharge papers."

* * *

The guard told him to be careful, as if he was going in to see Hannibal Lector.

Logan simply dismissed the man as being a little on edge after everything that had happened in the last couple of days, and without missing a beat, descended the curving staircase into the cell area. There was only one occupant in this particular cellblock and he wasn't what Logan expected. He imagined the raving lunatic beating bloody knuckles on the bars that held him prisoner, eyes tiny black dots against a bloodshot canvas. But what he found belied the rumors floating around the station; Jon Canmore was sitting calmly on his bunk, hands in his lap, fingers laced and even his prison-issue orange jumpsuit seemed professionally pressed. His eyes were still and steady and followed his every move since appearing from the staircase, right up until he took to the chair in front of Canmore's cell.

He returned the stare and thought to introduce himself. "Mr. Canmore. My name is Gabriel Logan. I'm the federal prosecutor assigned to the case."

Canmore leaned forward, slowly and deliberately rolling his head back and forth as he studied the man, like some animal sizing up its prey. "So yui're here t' put th' beasts in cages where they belong." he said.

"If they're guilty, yes."

He twitched. Canmore couldn't believe what he just heard. "If they're..." he tried to repeat it, and got a sharp pain in the frontal lobe. "Come now, Mr. Logan, ye can't actually believe they're innocent..."

"It's not important what I believe," Logan answered calmly, "only what the evidence shows."

"If someone is mauled by a wild animal, ye don't put th' animal on trial. Ye kill it."

He was dead serious. There was absolutely nothing that belied the words and the conviction behind them. "Well, apparently, these gargoyles are just as intelligent as we are, Mr. Canmore, with a sense of identity, self-awareness and consciousness. I think that at least entitles them to fair treatment."

Canmore seemed to lose interest in the man and slumped against the wall. "Another sheep. Pity."

"Hardly." Logan said. "I'm the prosecution. My job is to prove his guilt and if you're able to help me do that then I think we can work together."

He smacked his lips and rubbed the tip of his tongue over his incisors, uninterested gaze still attracted to the ceiling. "I'd hate t' waste my breath on someone who will be just as ineffective as everyone else I've counted on for support."

"Actually, I was hoping I could count on _you_." he returned. "That is, if you're willing to cooperate."

Canmore lowered his eyes and, seeing the prosecutor's ambiguous expression, started tapping a single index finger slowly and methodically to his temple. Then smiled, and bared his teeth. "Ye don't think I'm quite right in th' head, do ye?"

He felt the hairs on his neck prick and stand on end. As much as he loathed to admit it, there was something about this man that put a cold shiver in his spine. "I've known you for a total of three minutes," Logan answered, "but the reports and testimonies haven't been kind."

"I know. But I assure ye, Mr. Logan, I'm th' pinnacle of sanity."

"Of course you are."

He could practically taste the sarcasm; it hung heavy in the air between them. "Yui're right, yui're right, my reputation has been tarnished. But I also have a wealth of information that could expose them as th' monsters they are, including any and all of their human allies."

As much as he didn't quite believe him, he thought he'd chase the rabbit down the rabbit-hole. "Speaking of human allies, is David Xanatos in any way linked to the gargoyles?"

Canmore couldn't nod fast enough. "Aye. He's been hiding them in his castle since nineteen ninety-four. In fact, he's th' one who imported them here from Scotland, along with that skyline monstrosity."

"According to you, and I'm sorry but your word doesn't carry much weight anymore, if it ever did. Do you have evidence of this?"

"What do _you_ think?" Canmore glared. "Xanatos has made a life of covering up his dirty, little secrets. He has all of ye running around in circles chasing yuir own tails."

"There was an investigation conducted and it turned up almost nothing. What little evidence we could find was inconclusive."

"Of course it was. A magician will never let ye see how he performs his tricks. If ye were t' storm that building right now, ye'd find th' exact same statues as ye currently have upstairs." And as soon as he finished he raised his head, as if he could sense he was wrong. His internal clock was a finely honed instrument. "But, it's after sunset isn't it? They're flesh and blood now."

"We can't search his property without a proper warrant." Logan said.

"Then get another warrant."

"There's not enough–"

"_Evidence_, yes!" Canmore chimed in, irritated. His father's death and all the memories associated with were bobbing to the surface; the murder went unsolved only due to the fact a gargoyle would never be believed to exist, let alone as the murderer, or ever tried for her horrific crime. "Evidence, due process, it's all rubbish. Sometimes ye need t' bend th' rules a little bit in order t' better serve and protect yuir fellow citizens, Mr. Logan."

"You mean, with a mask and electrically-charged hammer?"

That tone might have brooked an angry response, but Canmore allowed him the little victory, if only for the fact he was beginning to actually somewhat tolerate the man.

"But, getting back to why I'm actually here," Logan continued, "I suppose I should ask you what you were actually doing on the shore near Battery Park being beaten by a gargoyle."

Canmore sneered, "They don't need reasons to terrorize humans. That's what they do, that's what they are."

Logan sighed. This man had a one-track mind. "Perhaps you gave him an incentive to beat you. Self-defense perhaps. You single-handedly formed a terrorist group–"

"_We weren't terrorists_." he quickly barked. "We were protectors."

But Logan continued unabated. "A group that made it their sole purpose to destroy any living gargoyle. Perhaps you were going to kill him before he got the upper hand."

He could feel the rage bubbling in his throat and the image of grabbing this man through the bars and repeatedly ramming his skull into the solid steel had to be swallowed. Jon remained calm. "I was defending myself against an animal out for my blood, an animal that caused the death of hundreds of human beings."

He was struck by that. "Hundreds?" he echoed. "Who? _When?_"

"That..._gargoyle,_" he forced himself to swallow whatever else was about to spill out in place, "and his kin destroyed and flooded an underwater bunker just hours before we were caught by th' police, leaving brave men and women t' die in th' cold depths of th' bay."

Logan remembered seeing something in agent Neville's file of seismic disturbances just off Manhattan's coastline. "The explosions..." he said absentmindedly, and loosed a revelation Canmore picked up on.

"Aye, they set bombs in an underwater bunker, killing all but a few survivors."

He hated to feed what could turn out to be the fantasies of a delusional man, but until his investigation proved otherwise, he had nothing to disprove Canmore's wild claims. He just had trouble believing there was an underwater bunker off Manhattan's coast and a war fought just beneath the surface of the water without anyone noticing. "And the purpose of this bunker was...?"

"It was the headquarters of th' Guild."

"The Guild. Heavily-armed, masked mercenaries that shot up Times Square. Another group of protectors, Mr. Canmore? Like your Quarrymen?"

"Misguided in their methods perhaps," Canmore offered, "but not their cause."

"And that cause being, I assume, to kill gargoyles."

"Yes."

"You seem to be on intimate terms. Are you part of this Guild? Their leader perhaps?"

"No, but I admit, I was there." Canmore replied. "Trying t' mold them into something better, something more than just thugs with guns, something that could inspire all of humanity and unite them against their greatest threat."

This man could run for congress with the amount of bull he was flinging; Logan was skeptical if anything. "That makes you an accessory."

"No," Canmore held up a hand, "it makes me a witness t' th' gargoyles' treachery."

"As per your testimony, with nothing to back it up."

"Ye can listen t' me, or not, it doesn't matter." Canmore shrugged indifferently. "But I have a lot of information that could prove everything I've been saying and expose so many human traitors."

"Well, I'll tell you what, you start naming names and I'll be sure to get every one of them down. Of course, if any of these so-called traitors are not what you say they are, what little credibility you have left will completely evaporate and I'll make sure you'll never have the ear of anyone."

"Fine then, get yuir gold-plated pen ready. Of course, I've already mentioned David Xanatos, but," and he had to lick a bit of saliva from his lips, enjoying this so much, "do ye happen t' know a detective by th' name of Elisa Maza?"

* * *

Despite the stereotype, cops always had the best donuts. Stephanie licked the last of the strawberry glaze from her fingers, having just polished off her third pastry. Five months into her pregnancy had her appetite on overdrive and she wasn't about to turn down a free spread, especially when the baby started tap-dancing on her spleen as a warning her sugar levels were getting dangerously low. Hurrying back to her assigned interrogation room (she hated that name; it didn't do well to put her clients at ease), Stephanie wiped her fingers on her jacket's shoulder and turned the knob.

Inside the little steel cube, a woman sat at the lone desk, facing the opposite wall. As Stephanie rounded the desk, she noticed the standard issue NYPD sweat-suit along with a faint whiff of soap and shampoo. Apparently this woman had just come fresh from the showers.

"Miss St. Nicks?"

Savannah lifted her eyes; soaking in the sight of the woman assigned to keep her from prison, it registered as nothing more than a crease through her brows. "Yeah."

"I just got a call from an agent Abel Sykes."

"He said I should speak with you."

"Yes," she nodded curtly, "as a witness for the defense." Stephanie eased into the opposing chair, smoothing the material stretched over her belly. From here, she got a better look at her guest; the woman seemed ungodly thin, with the hint of a black eye (working in a strip club, she'd seen her share of poorly concealed shiners on some of the local dancers). "I can always use more witnesses, and agent Sykes said you were willing to testify in order to escape a jail sentence. But I'm worried that you might end up impairing what I'm trying to do here."

With an indifferent shrug, Savannah answered, "Maybe, maybe not."

"I can't speak for a jury, but I can't on good conscience have an attempted murderer speak on behalf of someone I'm trying to prove innocent, unless there was good cause for your actions in the hospital."

"If I told you the man I tried to kill was responsible for several murders, and my incarceration in an underwater bunker where I was beaten for information, do you think a jury would be a little more lenient?"

During her rather lengthy phone-call with agent Sykes, he'd relayed his suspicion that Savannah had been a captive of the Guild, but it didn't quite mute the reaction, almost a mirror image of Abel's own when he was told the same thing. "Yes, I...if you were indeed kidnapped and mistreated, I'd argue self-defense, but trying to smother a helpless invalid could be construed as malicious and premeditated."

"Malicious is almost fracturing my eye socket."

"I noticed the bruise." Stephanie hoped her empathy wasn't showing through. "I am sorry, but I have to be absolutely sure–"

"That I'm not a lying psycho with Munchausen's?" Savannah finished for her, though in a less than complimentary tone. "Agent Sykes already identified the leader of the Guild."

"But there's still no evidence you were their captive."

Savannah's expression suddenly deformed, collapsing from the outside in; she jumped up like a rocket had gone off under her chair and leaned over the table. "Look at my face!" she growled, using a single index finger to highlight the bruises. "Isn't this evidence enough?"

Stephanie didn't bat an eyelash; this wasn't the first time she had a woman yelling in her face. "No." she said calmly. "It's not. You could have easily sustained those injuries in the pile-up. Unless someone else can confirm your story, your defense as a physically abused prisoner won't hold water. If you're telling the truth, then I need to know how and why."

All the air sucked from her sails, Savannah slowly lowered back into her seat. Anger transmuted to quiet trepidation.

"Are you afraid of any possible consequence?" Stephanie asked. "I can assure you, if we can verify your story, you'll have complete protection if you testify."

"I'm not afraid of anything anymore..."

"Except ending up in prison."

"I'm not doing this for myself!" Savannah snarled. "I just don't want to hurt anyone, especially with what I know."

"Perhaps, you can help them more than you know."

"You know, that's exactly what Sykes said. Too bad he doesn't know a tenth of what's actually going on..."

Leaning her head on a closed fist, Stephanie thinned her eyes at the cryptic statement. "Well, agent Sykes also confided in me that he thinks you weren't in captivity with the Guild the entire time of your disappearance. That you've had prolonged contact with the gargoyles. That's why the Guild took you."

"He's insightful," she said quietly, "and he's told you a lot."

"Yes he has." she nodded. "Is he right?"

Silence lingered as Savannah mulled on her answer. But whatever her impressive little mind could've and would've come up with went unvoiced.

"If you can help them, help their leader, by telling me–"

"I was going to expose them, you know?" Savannah interrupted suddenly. "Tell every one of their dirty little secrets and get myself into the big leagues. Get myself an anchor position. And after all of that, they still came to my rescue. The gargoyles are heroes, who had to defend themselves against their own extermination."

Finally, she was getting to the meat. "Their extermination? From who? The–"

"Guild."

Stephanie pulled a small notepad out of her briefcase and started furiously flipping through the pages. "Apparently, agent Sykes believes they were responsible for the deaths of several members of the old Gargoyles Taskforce, Tony Dracon and his inner circle, members of a gargoyles support rally and the victims of the pile-up in Times Square."

"All orchestrated by Joseph Hawkins." Savannah added.

"The man you tried to kill."

Her lips curled and Savannah rubbed her tongue over the barely-healed split in her bottom lip; she'd become more aware of it since being made to talk so much. It would probably form a small scar. "They kept attacking the gargoyles, they wouldn't let up."

"So they, what, retaliated?"

"Yes. If there's any justification for self-defense..."

Stephanie lifted from her notes. "Well, the next question I have to ask is how exactly you came by all of this information, and why I should trust you in defending the freedom and, possibly, the very life, of my client?"

Her reporter instincts kicked in. Savannah wasn't convinced she was doing anything to sway this lawyer from her opinion. "You're right, you still think I'm a crackpot."

"You've yet to prove otherwise."

"I'm not. I'm a good reporter, and reporters go to any length to get their story. I tried to break into the gargoyles' home and in doing so, stubbed my toe on the story of the century. I just couldn't tell it without letting the genie out of the bottle."

"Well, whatever the consequences, I think you'd better pony up. There's more at stake here than just yourself now, unless you're lying about still being afraid."

"_No._"

"Then maybe the threat of going to a holding cell and being charged with attempted murder is enough to convince you otherwise." Finally, Stephanie had elicited an emotional response and, unashamedly, took a bit of pleasure in seeing the provocation first spread through Savannah's lips, then her brows, eyes, and then finally trickle through her hands. Those delicate little things curled into fists and for a brief second, Stephanie thought the woman sitting across from her was going to leap from her chair again. She was in her second trimester but not above kicking off her heels and throwing down if it came to that. "You knew the terms. You want immunity, you better start talking."

Whatever physical energy was building up was simply released through slumped shoulders and Savannah's next breath felt like sandpaper.

"That's the reality of this entire situation, and I'm sorry, but you were part of the cause. Now, you either start spilling the beans or I'm done with you, and you get a lovely strip search as your parting gift."

Savannah deliberated, snorted, and then, "It all started six months ago..."

* * *

The ambulance rumbled up to the curb and lurched to as gentle a halt as it was capable. The contents, and the people inside, shifted with the sudden stop in forward momentum. The agent accompanying Sykes almost hit his head on an overhanging cabinet full of medical supplies; only a hand and quick reflexes saved him from a nasty bruise. He fixed his flat cap and square-rimmed glasses, and shot a glance at Abel.

"Sorry 'bout that," the driver said to his passengers, "but it's a little hard to navigate around here."

Abel grabbed a strap handle attached to the roof and poked his head into the cab. "Yeah, don't worry about it."

Police headquarters was a labyrinth of roadblocks and human flotsam, once extending out onto the streets beyond. The reporters were allowed a little closer only to keep them off the street and relieve traffic, especially with Times Square cordoned off. Whenever a vehicle would approach the building, the reporters would gravitate towards it as moths would crowd an open flame, microphones ready, cameras zooming in on any shadow that could be a living, breathing occupant.

Turning around to the ambulance's rear box, he eyed the other passenger. Katana was in a wheelchair, holding an arm around her stomach, almond eyes closed and managing every breath. She had the temperament of steel. From Bellevue to here, she was still and silent and in some kind of a self-induced trance. Meditation, he mused. She didn't actually need an ambulance; she could've just as easily been loaded into an unmarked police car, but Abel had insisted. She wasn't a criminal, she was a wounded victim and he intended to prove that. "All right, let's get you out of here."

The cap-wearing agent had to squint against the fireworks of camera flashes flooding through the rear door's window; the reporters were massing. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Sykes?"

"Yes."

"Maybe we should cover her up." he suggested.

But Abel refused. "No. Not this time." And then he scanned that same crowd, hungry for a shot of something good. "I want everyone to see what happened to her." He nodded and they swung the doors open to the full brunt of a hundred questions being asked at once; even a hundred yards away, it was a blaring mess of overlapping voices, like seagulls fighting over scraps.

Katana was carefully lowered to the ground and forced to shield her eyes from the flashes; she wasn't quite comfortable being seen as an invalid, but figured if sympathy could aid her clan then so be it.

Abel positioned himself behind her, languidly pulling her wheelchair up onto the curb and then slowly taking the steps into the building. He figured he'd allowed some good front page material. As fast as a wireless internet connection could carry the information, he was sure this was all over the news by now.

* * *

With nothing new to report, every channel had been in a holding pattern all day, forced to regurgitate the same footage, facts and assumptions ad nauseam. Every cop or agent within shouting distance would offer nothing but the familiar _"No comment"_, leading the reporters to become antsy. Every time a car pulled up, every time someone walked out of the building for something as innocuous as a cigarette break on the front steps, they were harassed for information or felt the weight of the world watching every move they made.

And as night fell, they grew more and more restless. According to the mayor the gargoyles would wake come sunset, but more than an hour had passed without so much as a word from any authority figures.

Ambulances plying the lanes around the building were a common sight, ferrying wounded civilians and cops alike from one place to another. But it was rare when one was allowed through the heavily-manned roadblocks and parked itself at the bottom of the main steps of police headquarters. After a moment, the ambulance doors opened, an agent in a dark suit stepped out and started helping someone in a wheelchair. The patient had green skin, almost luminescent by the light of a hundred camera bulbs. Horns curling from her jet-black hair. Wings. A gargoyle. The crowd exploded.

Within minutes, every television program that didn't have _Gargoyles Revealed_ or some other such catchy tagline permanently etched on the bottom of the screen was pre-empted with breaking news and footage of Katana from dozens of different angles, as many cameras were filming. As anchors tried to describe the sight to their audience, the cameras zoomed in on every inch of the female gargoyle that was exposed under the bandages and robe.

But for two people in particular, her sudden appearance had a more personal impact.

Her hatchlings were watching, and they both breathed a sigh of relief seeing their mother alive and well. "Mom..." Tachi whispered gratefully.

* * *

A full day hadn't lessened the impact of the attack in Times Square, but with the National Guard in town to help bolster the police's thinly-stretched forces, every captain and squad leader on the island had made sure every cop and detective under their direct command got a hot meal and caught some sleep. Besides the inevitable detour around a Times Square swathed in a spider-web of yellow police tape, there wasn't much disruption to New York's daily routine; a nuke could drop in the middle of the island and people would still line up at any surviving hot dog vendors.

With almost a full day passed, most of the policemen and women were forced by obligation to absorb the reality of gargoyles and masked terrorists, hardened veterans and rookies alike. _"Deal with it."_ was becoming a recurring mantra in every precinct house, but no more prevalent than in police headquarters, nexus for all the overlapping insanity. As enough time passed, it was becoming easier, all until an FBI agent wheeled another gargoyle into the building.

Breaths stopped in throats, coffee went down the wrong pipe and headquarters fell silent as Abel guided Katana inside.

Her arrival wasn't missed by anyone, especially a woman who'd made a home of a padded bench in the back corner.

Attracted by the commotion, Maria Chavez dragged the loose strands from her eyes and tucked them back into a haphazard hairdo held together with a few scavenged bobby pins. She scanned in between the crowd and instantly, a flash of jade leapt out in front of her eyes. "Good lord..." She quickly elbowed Iliana in the ribs, the detective having fallen asleep on the bench beside her, using her leather jacket as a pillow. They'd stayed the day, each taking shifts to keep an eye on the clan while the other returned to the 23rd. Maria's cellphone bill would probably be a few pages long next month, considering she almost ran the battery dry a couple of times while trying to organize her officers during the chaos.

Iliana shot up and was about to give whoever stuck the knife in her side a good old-fashioned Brooklyn tongue-lashing with a side of boot when she was interrupted by Maria's sharp glare. The captain flicked her head towards the middle of the station's foyer, and someone being wheeled just around the corner. "Jesus..._whuzzat?_"

"Yes."

The gargoyle vanished down the corridor just as her brain de-fogged. "Well," she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, "at least we know she's okay."

Abel guided Katana's chair towards the end of the hall. It seemed to narrow and shrink, but she couldn't tell if it was just the medicine being slowly squeezed into her arm affecting her eyes or her own growing sense of dread. She was rolled past several heavily-armed guards in SWAT team uniforms, clutching to assault rifles and eying her warily. Despite this particular human's kindness, she couldn't shake the feeling she was being led to the slaughter. Her tail must've twitched, snapping against Abel's leg, to illicit a response.

"Don't be nervous." Abel assured her. "I think you'll like what's in the next room." He nodded to the guard closest to the door and the man used his free hand to turn the knob, allowing them entry.

Katana was wheeled inside, only to find her clan there hit upside the collective head with shell-shocked expressions. Everyone had whirled on that telltale squeak of the opening door and figured it was another agent coming to either stare at or question them.

There was a moment of stunned silence before Angela reacted first, "Katana!"

Katana suddenly became the center of a gargoyle huddle. She would've reciprocated the embrace if it weren't for her injuries; though the railroad map of scars on her stomach burned like hot candlewax from being moved so quickly after waking, she was grateful to be reunited with her clan. And her sister, the clan's missing sister. She was so engrossed by the miraculously resurrected pumpkin-skinned female she almost missed the fact a certain scent was absent from the crowd.

Angela noticed Katana's searching gaze first. "He isn't here," she whispered, "but he's all right."

A deep breath followed; Katana seemed placated. She laced her fingers and pressed them to her mouth. "Thank the dragon..."

"So," someone said in the background, "you _can_ speak."

She centered her eyes on the man who'd brought her here, regarding him again now that they were on different ground.

"It's all right," Angela explained, "agent Sykes here has been very kind and helpful."

"Yes, agent Sykes," Katana said, "I can speak. Very well in fact."

Abel rubbed his stubble, and nodded thoughtfully. Her raw-boned features hinted at an Asian descent, and the accent clinched it. "Thought so."

"Where is my mate?" She avoided his name just as Angela had.

"He's in another room, sequestered."

"Why?"

The rest of the clan rustled their wings as a collective response. Bronx mewled; he didn't understand, but picked up on the sudden downturn in mood. They'd already expressed their feelings to the agents ranging from erudite reason to snarling, vocal protests.

Abel sighed, "He's under arrest."

* * *

She was glad she'd switched to the flats; though she'd made a good living in high-heels, Stephanie's center of gravity had shifted slightly and running towards her meeting with the mayor, after having hit the bathroom for the third time in the last few hours, making that sprint towards the office was a lot easier a few inches closer to the ground. Seeing the doorway, she aimed towards it, but almost ran headfirst into someone else steering his way through as well.

Stephanie would later compare it to one of her Three Stooges DVDs, when Larry, Moe and Curly all tried to enter the Countess' ballroom at the same time, only to end up getting stuck in the doorway. The man politely retreated and ushered her in with an extended hand. Stephanie bowed as far as her stomach would let her (as it turned out, not far at all) and slipped inside.

Mayor Frost was behind a large oak desk, cell-phone attached to the side of his head. Even this late, his hair was perfectly coifed, suit without a single wrinkle. With New York a national hotspot, one could only imagine who he was talking to now. When spotting the lawyers standing stiffly just inside the door he quickly waved them over. "Yes, yes, sir, I agree fully. Listen, I have to go, the lawyers involved with the case are here. Thank you, yes, I'll keep you fully apprised." The cell phone was snapped shut and stowed in his breast pocket. "Ah, Mr. Logan, Mrs. Helms, it's good to finally meet you."

Defense and prosecution immediately met their gazes on learning who the other was. This was the first time they'd officially been in the same room with the other, and each took a moment to surreptitiously size up the competition.

Stephanie saw the man's gaze flick inadvertently to the floor, follow the length of her body from toe to tip and then finally settle at eye-level. It wasn't so much contempt that lightly stained his features; she figured her credentials (or lack thereof) wasn't even worth the particular emotion. It was more like a delighted conceit. "Problem?"

He was at least gracious in his disrespect. "None whatsoever, Miss Helms."

"_Mrs._"

"Of course."

Mayor Frost started knocking the surface of the table he was sitting at, interrupting the banter. "Are you both finished?"

"Yes." they chorused.

"All right, I think you've had enough time to meet with your respective clients. I've spoken with the state attorney general and the commissioner and they both agree with me, a trial will go on as soon as each side is ready."

"I still need to conduct interviews." Logan said quickly.

And Stephanie chimed in immediately after, almost stepping on her rival's last word. "As do I."

"I have a list of potential witnesses and collaborators that I'd like to question. With your permission, I'll have them brought to police headquarters."

Frost noticed the zeal; it was flowing like wine. This case had the prospect of being the biggest of the decade, perhaps in the city's entire history. It could either build a career or destroy it all in one fell swoop. But he wasn't about to step on anyone's civil liberties for career advancement. "Be careful." he warned. "I know this case is bigger than anything we could ever imagine, but I don't want anyone's constitutional rights stripped just because the accused is a gargoyle. We've already got a circus in the streets just outside this building and every single decision we make is being watched by the entire country, if not the world. We are not above the law, and we won't be dragging anyone we might even remotely suspect of having anything to do with the gargoyle from their homes."

Logan arched his spine to where it might snap. "I believe my record stands for itself. I have no intention of this turning into a drumhead."

"Good." Frost nodded, and then turned to Stephanie. He had to admit, she wasn't the first choice he would've made from all the available candidates. "Mrs. Helms, I know you're young and relatively inexperienced. Frankly, I'm surprised you were assigned in the first place."

"You were an attorney, weren't you, Mayor Frost?"

"Nine years."

"And how many of those were spent in the New York justice system?"

She didn't quite have to say what she was alluding to, the tone was enough. This woman was a New Yorker born and bred, though she was adept at keeping down the brimming accent, half Brooklyn tenacity and half Upper West side intellectual. "If you're saying you're here because of some ulterior motive, some clerical error or because no one else had the brass to volunteer, I can assure you, that system I helped uphold wouldn't be so...errant."

She seemed strangely vindicated in his trust in the legal system, which in some small way, extended to her. "Of course."

"I've had the chance to skim over your qualifications and they seem more than adequate for the job. _But_," he quickly amended, "if you're uncomfortable in this role, I can have someone else assigned."

"The gargoyle has no one else, Mr. Mayor. But if you think I'm unable to properly defend him..."

Frost was ambivalent on the entire subject; he could easily make a few calls and change up the guard. "It's up to you, but I also want to make sure he is afforded the same rights as anyone being tried in the city and state of New York. Besides," he couldn't help drop his eyes to her expanded midsection, "I have no idea how long this trial could take. Will you be able to take it to the end?"

Stephanie cocked her hips and hooked a hand into her skirt's waistline. "If I have to breast-feed my newborn child while I'm cross-examining one of Mr. Logan's witnesses, I will."

Logan rolled his eyes. "Well, that's a pleasant mental image..." he said out the corner of his mouth.

But Frost smiled in response. "All right. You both have seventy-two hours to assemble your respective cases."

Both the lawyers in the room visibly balked at their sudden timeline, and Logan was first to voice his objection. "That doesn't seem like a lot of time to build a case of this magnitude."

"The city's a tinderbox. I doubt you missed the National Guard on the streets when arriving in town. I need action before something explodes."

"I don't think it's fair to make a scapegoat out of the gargoyle." Stephanie blurted out.

"If he's found guilty, we calm the masses. If he's found innocent, then at the very least, we can't be faulted for sitting on our butts." Mayor Frost held up his watch, deliberately tapping the face. "Your seventy-two hours has started."

* * *

Jason wasn't in the best of moods when he was called all the way down to the first floor. If anything, dropping two thousand feet in a tiny cylinder with wood veneer and aggravatingly-chipper elevator music gave him plenty of time to drown himself in less than self-appreciative thoughts.

His mole at Bellevue had reported in a while ago. Before he had the chance to even think of a way to get to Savannah, she was granted release by the FBI. By one agent in particular. This agent Sykes was proving adept at taking away every opportunity he might've had at controlling the entire situation. He just hoped what both Todd and Rose said about him and his intentions were true.

He wondered if Xanatos figured his idea to do nothing was simply borne out of desperation, and the fact he was literally unable to do anything to help the clan. And now, he was beginning to doubt

The cab slowed (which caused his stomach to body-slam his spleen), lurched, relaxed into the tension frame and dinged at its destination. The doors opened and Jason rolled out into the main foyer of Xanatos Enterprises. Spying the front desk, he found several policemen flanking a couple of suits that screamed government employee.

The receptionist (Sharon, he tried to remember, or maybe Susan?) was standing her ground like a guard at the drawbridge and, when seeing Jason come rolling into view, immediately rounded her desk and jabbed a finger at the intruding group. "Mr. Canmore, I'm sorry, but these gentlemen were adamant."

"It's quite all right, Sharon, thank ye." Letting his momentum carry him right to the gleaming tips of the agents' leather saddlebacks, he clasped his hands in his lap and put on airs as the genial, polished voice of Xanatos Enterprises. "It's quite late, gentlemen, what can I do for ye this evening?"

The lead agent stiffened and eyed him. "Mr. Canmore, I presume."

"Yes. And ye are?"

"Agent Johnson."

Jason smirked. "Of course."

"Well," he cleared his throat, "I assume you've been watching the news?"

"Hard t' miss."

The agent didn't appreciate the humor, especially coming from an XE employee. "Then I'll get right to the point." he said sternly. "We have evidence to suggest David Xanatos is in some way involved with the gargoyle we now have in custody, not to mention the rest of them. He's to be brought in for questioning."

He wasn't surprised; Jason figured a lot of tiny cracks were being wedged open, but he wondered just who had the crowbar in their hands to connect Xanatos to the gargoyles so quickly. He shook the thoughts off. "I seem t' recall a rather invasive investigation and search of th' premises a couple of months ago." he returned. "That search turned up absolutely nothing and this company was officially cleared."

"New evidence has come forth."

"Such as?"

"We're not at liberty to say."

"Of course yui're not." Jason smiled. "Listen, gentlemen, unless ye wish t' stare a massive civil suit in th' face, I suggest ye go back and remind yuir superiors of our _proven_ innocence."

The agent in charge seemed to drink his next breath like he would molasses, his Adam's apple thudding up and down between his neck and jaw. Either it was his nerves or his palpable frustration. "This is on the orders of the federal prosecutor, Mr. Canmore, and the mayor. Not to mention the mayor's good friends the commissioner and the district attorney."

"Well, far be it from me t' upset his friends." Jason replied glibly. "But I'm sure they wouldn't be pleased with a multi-million dollar lawsuit against th' city and state of New York for slander, especially right now."

"And I doubt your employer would enjoy having his reputation, and that of his company's, tarnished by being dragged into the back of an FBI cruiser in handcuffs." He crossed his meaty arms. "And please believe me when I say that we will indeed drag him out of this building, by his pony-tail if we have to."

Seeing the obstinate expression curdle the agent's concrete features, Jason figured this man was willing to go to war. He turned at the waist towards the receptionist. "Sharon, could you get Mr. Xanatos on the line please? Perhaps he can better relate just how much damage he could do t' this city."

She made an '_o'_ with her mouth and then sucked in a breath through her teeth. "I'm sorry, Mr. Canmore," she said apologetically, "but Mr. Xanatos left more than an hour ago."

Jason visibly wrinkled at the news, his lantern jaw tensed straight through to the back of his head. There wasn't anything on the schedule, but considering his employer's mystifying, near self-destructive behavior the last couple of months, he figured he shouldn't be surprised. But now he was left with the unenviable task of making up a bulletproof excuse and lying to federal agents. "Ah, so he's already left for his trip." he replied as casually as possible. "Thank you, Sharon."

One of the other agents lifted his head, interest piqued. "His trip?"

"Yes," Jason continued without missing a beat, smooth as butter, "David Xanatos is th' owner of one of th' world's largest, multi-national corporations, and must personally oversee several international assets. Unless ye want me t' tell th' pilot of his private jet t' turn around over th' Pacific ocean, I think ye might have t' wait a while."

But the agent was a rock, more statue than any sleeping gargoyle. Scowl lines deepened into canyons. "I suggest you make that call, Mr. Canmore, as his sudden absence can only be construed as guilt."

Jason simply stared at them, his face an impassive mask.

"We'd also like to talk to a detective Elisa Maza."

For an instant, the façade rippled. Jason was stunned to even hear that name coming out of the man's mouth. "_What?_"

"I believe she lives in a penthouse in the Eyrie, shared with her husband, XE Security Administrator."

He'd almost, _almost_, forgotten Elisa's residence in the skyscraper owned by a former suspect was explained away (on paper at least) by the fact her husband was an XE employee, complete with a legitimate paper trail. His mind was racing; what did they want with Elisa? But his train of thought suddenly ran right through a brick wall when he figured his brother must be the one sharing all his dirty little secrets with the prosecution. "She's...unavailable."

The agent crossed his arms, annoyed. "How convenient."

"Mrs. Maza, _and_ her husband, are out of th' country at th' moment. Maternity leave. She's pregnant with her second child."

"Where?"

"Africa." It came out quicker than he would've liked. Perhaps with a little bit of lead-time to flesh out a proper alibi...

The agent seemed incredulous. "_Africa._"

"She has deep roots there. Her mother is Nigerian. Ye can ask her yourself."

"Oh, we intend to."

* * *

He told the driver to spare the brake pedal. Right now, speed was of the essence.

David Xanatos nipped at a glass of scotch-on-the-rocks, eyes lazily aimed out the window. The lights of New York were blurred into a rainbow streak as the limousine raced through Manhattan's streets. One ship from a fleet of dozens was coming to port after an extensive search that no doubt had cost millions in unnecessary expenses, its cargo drudged from the bottom of the Atlantic. Blood money. David Xanatos had faced only one extortion attempt in his lifetime, and when he found the man who tried to blackmail him with information on a certain dirty deal made south of the border for land appropriation, a single directive made that man disappear. His bank accounts were emptied, his 401K and pension obliterated, his apartment was rented out, furniture and clothing donated to Good-Will; it was as if the extortionist never existed. Word got out. People were warned. There wasn't ever a second attempt.

A twitch through his features creased the skin around his eyes. Of course, he was a single man then. No wife or child to use as leverage. He remembered being told once _"Only you would regard love as a weakness..."_ and for the longest time, before he held that squirming, squalling child in his arms, he did. If only that sanctimonious gargoyle could be here now.

So engrossed in his thoughts, he almost didn't notice a speck of something floating through the limo. Like dust. _Was a window open?_

The speck brightened. A dot of light appeared, like a firefly on a summer's night. And before the urge to reach out and catch it inside a closed hand overrode his good sense, a sudden rush of warmed air exploded outwards. Energy crackled and sputtered and in its place sat a familiar figure. Recovering his wits from the sudden outburst, Xanatos swallowed the knot in his throat.

Puck.

He was hovering cross-legged, directly opposite his seat. His thin fingers were steepled, though bent at odd angles that might prove excruciating for a human.

Xanatos flicked his eyes to the driver at the opposite end of the stretch-limo. He was sure a flash of faerie dust in the rearview mirror would've alerted the man, but he assumed Puck wanted a little privacy. The driver would see only the image of his employer sitting peacefully in the back, occasionally helping himself to a stiff drink, the smoked-glass partition under a simple glamour spell. He was sure no matter how much of a ruckus he raised, save throwing himself out the door and into traffic, the driver would see only what Puck wanted him to see.

But the Puck kept staring at him. His eyes were like the freakish, impossible offspring of fire and ice, dead still and brilliant electric blue, glowing between hanging strands. "Hello, David."

David Xanatos could feel his chest compressing, could hear plastic panels distorting, see the fine crystal vibrating, ripples in his scotch; he figured Puck was increasing the air pressure inside the vehicle, either on purpose or his own anger was having a palpable effect on the environment around him. "Puck..." he said. It wasn't as much a greeting as it was a statement of fact.

"You've been a naughty boy."

"Aren't I always?"

Then, he broke the mask with a smile, and raised a single finger. "I never thought you had it in you, dear boy. Injecting me with iron nanites. _Brilliant!_"

Xanatos crossed a leg over the other; if he was fearful of the trickster, he hid it well under the self-assurance. "Sometimes the simplest plans work best."

"Yes, a human worthy of the Puck. I knew I chose correctly."

"Yes," he replied assuredly, "you did."

"And for my service, I ended up strapped to a gurney filled with microscopic machines, whilst a gargoyle drooled over me." He tilted his head, but kept his gaze locked. "Rather bad disposition that fellow. Makes Demona seem like an incontinent puppy."

David rimmed the glass with his fingers, but didn't take a drink. "You were aware."

A flicker of something trickled through Puck's face. Annoyance? "_Quite._"

"Then I assume you're aware of all the sordid details that forced me to imprison you."

"Oh yes, Sobek has you by the scrotum hairs, doesn't he, David?" he said with a Cheshire cat smile. "Now the daughter of Titania lies dying on Avalon and the young princeling feels everything Sobek feels, connected at the soul."

"I need those stones, Puck." Xanatos told him. He didn't need to be reminded.

"Stones?" He put a finger to his bottom lip, eyes darting this way and that, as if searching a broad and disreputable memory. "Ah yes, _those_ stones. The keystones of Atlantis' central temple, I presume. Seven magical rocks the last remnant of the most powerful human civilization before it was sunk by Zeus in another of his drunken rages." Puck hovered closer, his gaze boring through his former employer like x-rays. Of course, he _was_ peeling back layers of flesh and bone to see his heart beating, but damned if the little red meat-sack wasn't as composed as its owner. "What do you suppose he wants those for, hmm?"

A lazy shrug. "World domination presumably. Eradication of the human species. Sobek isn't much for imagination."

"He's a blunt instrument, yes. And you just plan on handing over the stones, hoping he'll cure Fox?"

"I'm not that naïve, Puck. I finally have an edge on that psychopath."

"Are you so sure?"

Xanatos raised an eyebrow at the question. Puck/Owen was always operating on levels even he admired, seeing those threads and all the conceivable threats attached to them. Though he'd planned for every contingency, he was curious after all and no man worth his salt was above asking a simple question. "Why do you ask?"

"I think you know as well as I do, David, that Sobek never intended to keep his part of the bargain."

"Naturally." he replied. "Which is why I've not once told him the truth."

"Always the player." Puck chuckled approvingly.

"He believes he has total access to my corporation's finances, when in fact, he's seeing only what I present to the IRS come tax season. Any research and development projects are outdated by at least six months and information on anything mystical is barely a fifth of what I actually know. The worldwide GPS tracking on the fleet currently searching for the stones are being falsely broadcast by Cyber-Biotics drones, each programmed to mimic a specific ship's maneuvers instantly upon the captain's orders–"

Puck cut him off by clapping his hands, in that eerily slow and deliberate manner. David would probably drone on and on about how he'd misled his blackmailer and time was short. "Bravo. But, how long can the pretense last?"

"It only has to last a little while longer." he said quietly, and distractedly.

"He's a cannibalistic brute, but he's quite shrewd. And I'm sure he's becoming anxious, especially now that my lovely fellow captive has been returned after an escape attempt, _without_ yours truly."

Guilt shaded his features. He didn't quite know how Puck regarded her, considering how fickle the Fay were with their lovers. "I'm sorry about Infiniti."

Puck waved his hand as if clearing the limousine of a bad smell. "What, that experiment?" he huffed. "You do know she's a fake, hmm, David?"

He nodded.

"As false as a set of silicone airbags, but her power is very real."

"Which I assume Sobek wants, in some form or another. And the stones are presumably the lynchpin."

Puck's expression actually became semi-serious. "If he gets his hands on them, well, let's just say the human race has already come close to extinction several times..."

"I might not have a choice."

"They're only two, David, amongst billions. Amongst an entire world ripe for the plucking."

He would pretend he never heard that, but he figured it was Puck trying to worm under his skin. "Can you do anything to help Fox? Or Alexander for that matter?"

"Maybe..." he replied nonchalantly, and with a tone that damn-near infuriated the billionaire.

Xanatos leaned forward, his eyes burning against the reflection of the city lights. "Then tell me. _Now._"

Puck's interest piqued. This man was made of brass. "Was that...an order?"

"I am your employer, aren't I? You swore servitude for the rest of my natural life."

"Ah, but you broke that covenant, David, m'boy. You betrayed me. Betrayed all that contract stood for, and now, the Puck is released from your bond."

If Xanatos reacted visibly, it was buried somewhere underneath a twelve hundred dollar suit. He remembered the day that diminutive, incredibly eccentric creature surrendered himself to a life of servitude. He was presented with an old sheet of parchment paper somehow snatched out of nothingness, the contract in a faded script, and a feather quill. He held out his hand expecting the pen only to have the Puck jab the tip into his palm, forcefully holding it there until the pen, taking his blood for ink, could drink its fill. The signature glowed on completion and the pact was sealed. "I remember."

"Furthermore, I'm forbidden by Oberon himself to do anything."

"You're not a stranger to bending the rules," Xanatos shot back, "and you're obviously not afraid to break Oberon's decree, considering you're using magic right now. How _did_ you regain use of your magic anyways?"

"I have friends bigger than Oberon." Puck boasted, fingers splayed across his chest. "It's good to be finally let out of Owen Burnett's starched suits."

He decided not to muse on how Puck reclaimed the use of his magic, and instead focused on the task at hand. "Puck..."

"Hmm? Oh, yes, well, I suppose it all comes down to _if_ I want to help you. Perhaps I'd rather see what you pull from that intriguingly complex mind of yours."

"_Damnit, Puck!_" His voice exploded inside the limousine. "If you have the ability to help me, to help my family, then do so and stop being so infuriatingly pedantic!"

He hovered close enough to touch; nose to nose. "You should have asked before you put that needle in my neck."

Wiping a finger across his moustache, Xanatos forced himself to calm down. He figured this little dialogue would roll around to that; Puck always spoke in riddles, steering conversations in endless circles. "I had no choice."

"Oh, David," Puck clucked his tongue, "you know as well as I do there's _always_ another choice. But you chose to exemplify a boring human trait, that of desperation, because you got soft. You chose to betray me, only because you couldn't think your way out. You chose to betray me for a cure that you know in your heart probably doesn't even exist!" He floated away, shaking his head and, when Xanatos went to say something, he suddenly whirled on the man and pinned him to his seat with twenty gees of force. "The Puck does not forgive easily, David. Be seeing you." He vanished, but not before leaving a lasting impression with a grin that widened right back to the molars. The air cracked and everything returned to as it was before the trickster ever appeared.

David sat alone in the dark, gears quickly turning and every single bit of brainpower focused on a single thought. Puck was incredibly, imaginatively and dangerously unpredictable, and now he was loose. And angry. At the very least, as Owen, he had him under his thumb. He finished his drink and returned his haunted gaze to the window.

* * *

Logan had assembled his team in record time. Some of the finest minds in the New York legal system were gathered in the room, surrounding the large conference table that stretched from his seat at the head to the end of the room what seemed like several miles away. Every lawyer and aide had a briefcase in front of them, vomiting files, books and CDs over the glassy wood surface. He'd spared no expense, considering the gravity of this particular case.

The chief of police, the commissioner, the district attorney, he'd been in touch with all of them in the last few hours. Every man and woman in every seat of every New York bureaucratic office voiced their opinion, with varying degrees on the outcome whether he won or lost.

As he surveyed the group, the collective worth of their suits more than enough to feed a family for an entire year, he noticed he was missing someone. "Has anyone seen–"

The door creaked open as if to answer, and he turned to see the last member of his prosecution. "Margot Yale." he nodded. "Thanks for coming."

She trotted forward, rested her leather attaché on the desk and smiled that oily smile of hers she wore so well. "Oh, I wouldn't miss this for the world."

* * *

Abel had managed to escape the chaos for a moment, finding a respite in a corner of the bullpen and a chair whose dilapidated appearance belied its comfort. Leaning back with his feet up on a desk, he rubbed the bridge of his nose with a couple of fingers; he'd only had the opportunity to grab a few naps here and there in between collecting wounded gargoyles and potential witnesses for the defense, fueled mostly on caffeine and powdered cream substitute.

He hadn't showered, shaved or, running his tongue across his teeth, brushed for a day and a half. Maybe he'd take twenty minutes and use the locker room downstairs to freshen up, if he could muster the strength to lift himself out of this chair.

But something else would threaten to do just that, grabbing him by the nostrils. He caught of whiff of something almost recognizable as food in the air.

A hand appeared in front of him, holding a sampling from one of the building's vending machines. "It's not much, but I know for a fact the machine was filled this morning."

Abel regarded the turkey sandwich encased in plastic as a gourmet meal. He ripped through the label with a fingernail, cracked the shell and immediately started eating. "You're talking to the man who drinks coffee from the worst machine in Manhattan..."

The flat-capped agent watched as Abel devoured the sandwich, downing every mouthful as if it was the last he'd ever take. "You know, there's something I've been wondering since I got here." he said, straddling the closest chair and leaning on the backrest. "You're really going out on a limb for these gargoyles, Sykes. You're risking your career."

Laughter followed, self-deprecating and bitter. "If you knew me at all, you'd know my career has been at a standstill for years. It's nice to think I'm actually accomplishing something."

"What if these creatures turn out to be the bad guys after all?"

"Then no one will miss me, will they?"

"On the contrary," the agent rebutted, "I think you've got a lot of potential."

"The FBI doesn't seem to agree."

"I wasn't talking about the FBI..." he replied cryptically.

Abel turned to look. He didn't know this agent very well; he'd worked with him a few times, but the man had a talent for disappearing in the middle of his cases. Or suddenly appearing in others (usually high-profile), like this one. His documented background was as equally a mystery; everyone at the bureau seemed to know him, just not very well. Despite his blatant ordinariness, he was impossible to read. "Why are you helping me?"

FBI agent Martin Hacker simply adjusted his glasses and smiled. "Let's just say, I too have a vested interest in how this turns out."


End file.
